Lost in Translation

I heard an infant wail when her father got up to get something from his bag a few seats away from me on the train. For whatever reason, it triggered a flash of understanding about why even adult human beings search outside of themselves for meaning. An infant is more acutely dependent on the help of others, notably parents, especially the mother, but even the father, whoever is providing warmth, protection, familiarity. An infant is attuned to helplessness, knows it without thinking, strictly through feeling. But as the infant becomes toddler and then young child, something happens—thought, increasing complexity of thought—that results in a separation from feelings, feelings that arise through sensation, through interaction with what is external to the body, the environment, the immediately surrounding environment.

It works in all ways, from the inhalation and exhalation of the air, of oxygen, to the swallowing and urinating or sweating of water and other fluids, the intake of nutrients through food and the excretion of the waste, the warmth or cold of the surrounding air or water or clothing or other bodies and the internal regulation of that heat or cold to maintain a relatively constant temperature, and so on and so forth. In no way, shape, or form are human beings individuals in the supposedly enlightened, Western sense of the word. That is a deception created and internalized through the complexity of thought and the structural complexity of that thought is what masks the utter dependence of particular human beings from reality, the reality of the relationship between the internal and the external. Self and/or identity is thus a lie that was in error from the first simple conception, perhaps itself a flash that someone, some philosopher or thinker, had centuries or millennia in the past.

But that error has been passed from generation to generation, codified in law, spread like a thought virus that took the form of language, spoken and written. The claims that each human is not an individual but a co-dependent being is a blasphemy in countries like the United States and, increasingly, in all other countries. Individuality is the basis of a secular religion or cult, just as fervently superstitious and irrational as any beliefs that defy the preponderance of evidence.

It may be an irony that the uneducated, illiterate, and poor know this truth better than those with PhDs from Harvard, Yale, Oxford, and other elite universities around the world. But it’s obvious enough to anyone more in touch with sensation and feeling than with complex intellectual ideas. I had just finished reading Somerset Maugham’s The Colonel’s Lady and I was reflecting on the story when the man rose from his seat and the infant began crying. Perhaps that is why I had that intense flash of insight, more an intuitive knowing that rose to thought because of how I processed the sounds I heard and the feelings I felt at almost the same moment. The thought, in its complexity, began its process and, as I’ve been writing this, I’ve distanced myself from my sensation in order to translate that sensory information and those feelings into thoughts that give rise to these words.

Thoughts are no less biological than the sensations and emotions. It is only when the thoughts are confined within a particular structure, the structure of language, that significant and complex errors of translation and interpretation begin to arise. I have thought in the past that language is a form of self-deception, or at least tends to be, but that is because the structure of language itself is in error and to think within the structure of any particular language determines the interpretive lens through which thoughts arise. In that sense, an infant is less confused than an adult. So, too, are animals. That doesn’t mean that infants have greater power, though. However, infants, with their lack of language processing abilities, cannot be fooled into believing the soothing, appeasing lies of language, the types of lies that dismiss the warning signs that sensation and emotion regularly communicate to the brain.

To maintain a “stiff upper lip” as the British culture might promote or to “tough it out” as the American culture demands is really a way of thinking that dismisses the suffering of the body that is communicated through sensation and feeling. Thus, the cultural basis of the English-speaking world, at the least, dismisses nature for the sake of a fantasy that leads to ill-health and diminishing well-being.

I witnessed, while living in Amsterdam, the beginnings of a new way of thinking, one based on scientific research, especially the more recent research from neuroscience that corresponds with Eastern modes of thought, the wisdom and traditions of yoga, tai chi, and other ancient holistic body/mind arts. Instead of churches on every corner I found studios offering yoga and martial arts classes. The old center of the city, especially, is still geared for cycling and walking above all else. Cars and even trams are not the most common forms of transportation. The quality of the food on offer many places is increasingly of a higher order than in the past.

The bottom line is that the health and well-being of the body is increasing in centrality of importance in the most advanced civilizations. It is institutionally understood first and foremost, from stringent environmental regulations to subsidization of transportation, health care, food safety, and so on. There is thus a trickling down of importance to the citizens of Amsterdam (and of course to the rest of Holland, but of the rest of the Netherlands I experienced much less).

A great hope for the world grew within me while living in Amsterdam, a hope I hadn’t had previously due to living in the U.S., spending my years of puberty and adolescence in the shadow of the militarization of the country during the Reagan Revolution and the advance of hyper-production/consumption cycles accelerated through economic globalization under all subsequent presidential administrations, enabled and encouraged by Congress and the Supreme Court. I have been in the U.S., though, since October of 2008. Obama’s “audacity of hope” proves to be just another in an endless series of political lies fostered by both Democrats and Republicans, a whitewashing of true intentions through soaring rhetoric. Obama, an inspiring orator with a pedestrian vision, is just another snake oil salesman descended from Western schools of thought, nothing more than high-brow con artistry.

No one should be surprised, though. Skin color, gender, sexual identity? All inconsequential traits in a country, in a world, where modes of thought determine decision making and action. If there still persists a belief that an African-American or a woman will be less likely to start or continue ceaseless war and class-based economics then it has to be recognized that Western thought is impervious to evidence. Western thought, the supposed champion of empiricism and rationality, of reason and the scientific method. Only a fool could still believe that, a fool who believes that abstract thought tells greater truths than sensation and emotion.

It can be said, perhaps, that the defeat of nature is complete. Well, in the minds of Western men and women, anyway. If perception is believed to be reality then sensation and feeling will be forever overmatched. But that’s only true for those who have been matriculated through school training, really just forced brainwashing of children and young adults. Parents are complicit, of course, because they were brainwashed as well, historical thought viruses spread to generation after generation, through institutional mechanisms that pervade even the most informal cultures. One has to look for truth amongst the poor, the outlaws, and the misfits. The subjugated understand the truth in their bodies; they simply lack the resources to resist institutional power and they certainly understand that the pain increases in relation to the intensity of resistance.

If You Speak

I spoke at a poetry open mic a few years ago. I spoke on several different occasions, to be more precise. It was an LGBT event but they were open-minded so they allowed breeders to attend and speak as well. The location was the Star e Rose cafe on Alberta Street in NE Portland (alas, Star e Rose, previously the oldest cafe on Alberta, is now closed). Week after week, young attractive lesbians and transgendered folk would give word to their passions and their passions seemed to be overwhelmingly related to love. I could feel something rising each week--no, not that; get your mind out of the gutter!--until ideas crystallized in the form of words. What I had to say was not poetry but the event organizer was wise enough to allow other forms of spoken word to be uttered. The following are the words I spoke in the spring of 2011:

...

If you speak I will fall in love with you. Do not speak to me, do not say a word, unless you want me to fall in love with you. If you want to hear my story as I plan to tell it then do not speak. For if you speak I will know, now, that you want me to fall in love with you.

Now, if that’s what you want then I have to surmise that you may have a number of motivations for wanting me to fall in love with you. You might be making a whimsical decision, not believing I am telling you the truth. You may be curious, you may want to see what will happen if you speak. You might think I’m sexy and you want me to know that you’d like to hook up after the show so you've decided to communicate that in the next, say, fifteen seconds by saying, “Hello, Michael.” ...

Speaking may mean other things as well. It may mean you've decided I’m an easy mark, that you can have a man-servant at your disposal whenever you’d like. Need to get a few things from the farmer’s market? Sure. Or maybe you think, “There’s this guy I really don’t like at work. I’ll have Michael could talk to him privately for me.” From there the thinking may become more predatory: “I can take over the entire Alberta Street area if I can just make a few more goons like him fall for me. Who’s going to stop me when I have a small army of men willing to kill for me? I, a lesbian, a woman who will never have sex with a single one of these men, am using their brute strength to satisfy my larger plans of neighborhood domination.”

Extortion might come next and then you’d start tricking out your friends, those who don’t suck up to the new “You,” The Capitalized YOU, the You in bold type font, You with calligraphic elegance, You with a machete in your left hand and the severed head of the defiant in your right.

You can see why I may not want you to speak, why I may be wary of falling in love with you. But love is like a spell, there’s no will involved, there’s just succumbing, giving in to it, allowing it to direct life, to make plans, to start saving a little here and there for an early retirement together. I’ll be blind to who you really are. I’ll believe you are the woman of my dreams and that you love me and that you live for my love for you. "What will I ever do without you?" I’ll start to think. What did I ever do before you? I have been thinking for years before meeting you here tonight.

Now you understand why I’m going to fall in love with whoever speaks to me while I’m on stage tonight. I've been setting up this moment for five years, preparing for it in every possible way, physically, emotionally, intellectually. I've been hiking, eating healthier, smoking less—-can’t quit just yet without you, babe-—traveling, spending forty days and nights in a fleabag motel in the middle of North Dakota, day after day, never leaving the room, never opening the curtains, just sitting in bed, thinking of you, for forty days and nights, wondering what you look like, wondering what color your hair is, wondering how it will feel the first time our eyes meet, the first time you speak to me.

That’s when I realized when and where it would happen. It would happen in Portland, in 2011, at a poetry open mic called Word Out. I didn’t know how it would all transpire between then and now—this all happened years ago, mind you. Now you really know why I’ll fall in love with you if you speak to me. It’s destiny. A destiny I chose to create for myself but a destiny nonetheless.

Why Word Out, though? I wondered, too. Lesbians? Really? How is that going to work? It doesn’t matter, though. Love doesn't work that way. I still haven’t figured out why I exist so expecting me to understand any of this would be an inexcusable error on your part. Things work out for a reason and one hundred percent of the time that reason is that things have worked out just as they have. Things couldn’t have been otherwise because they weren’t otherwise. Things that couldn’t have been otherwise then can be otherwise now.

In other words, I could believe now that what couldn’t have been otherwise was otherwise then. But the only “place” where that which was and couldn’t have been otherwise is otherwise would be within my mind. There’s everything that exists and then there’s everything that exists in my mind. And your minds.

Belief. A crazy thing. Dangerous. Frightening. But it’s essential. We have to believe. How can you have a purpose or meaning if you don’t believe? Believe what, you ask? The particulars are less important than belief itself. It’s sort of like human skeletons. One may be short of stature, one tall, one deformed in this way, another deformed in that way. But all of them, each one of them, is a human skeleton. There is Catholicism, Judaism, Islam, capitalism, socialism; there is no end to belief. Nihilism is … an impossibility. Except in the mind.

Let me say one more time, though, that if you speak I will fall in love with you. While that may seem grand in its own way, it is probably disturbing in most other ways. If you communicate in code “I love you, too, Michael,” by simply saying, “Hi,” then you must realize how much more serious that is than you may be thinking it is. As I focus my attention solely on you, as I serenade you, stroke your hair with my words, lift your skirt with my voice, you’ll regret having singled yourself out. You’ll say, “Hey, whoa, I just had to do it. You’d been begging for it all night, telling us ‘Ooooh, you shouldn’t do this scary thing or else all kinds of bugaboo bullshit’s going to happen,’ and I just wanted to fucking shut your ass up already! I didn’t ask for this shit.”

Except that you did. I told you I’d fall in love with you. You might have an idea of what that would mean, but could any of you reasonably say anything about what the experience would be like? You have no idea. Even I have no idea. I’m making things up. I’m guessing. How could I know any more than you do? All I know is that it will happen if someone speaks to me. I’m just trying to convey the seriousness of the situation, the unpredictability caused by the absence of reliability in light of the flight of accountability to the delight of responsibility. This is not good. But we can’t say that for sure, either. It might be just what we need.

If you speak and I fall in love with you I will probably come and sit next to you when I am finished. I will talk to you, as lovers do, about my hopes and dreams, about what I like and what I don’t, about great things I’ve done and horrible sufferings I’ve endured. I’ll lean on you, ask you for more than you can give, I’ll fail to give you what you need, and I’ll disappoint you so much that you’ll question everything you once believed.

That is what will set you free. You will, finally, by speaking so that I fall in love with you, discover that belief has been making all of your decisions for you. You will, finally, begin to understand that you can change your life only by changing your beliefs first. You’ll look at me, once you’ve had this realization, and say to me, “I don’t love you, but thank you for giving me this gift. I may never have come to this realization without your words. I am grateful.”

You’ll smile at me, you’ll gather your things, you’ll rise from your chair, you’ll say goodbye, and you’ll walk out of my life forever. You will go out into the world and create your own way in your own way. I’ll be here, sobbing uncontrollably, debilitated not by my love for you but by my belief in my love for you.

What Are We?

"What are we?" I wonder if the question of “we” doesn’t arise after the question of “me.” In other words, I think “What am I?” comes up as a question before “What are we?” It did for me, anyway, and that might be the result of the culture that raised me. I don’t know, though. A question that has often arisen for me is “Am I even part of ‘we’ except in a biological or cultural context?”

My answers to these questions changed throughout life—to the extent that I even had answers. I can mark my identity, in a way, through the answers I gave to the questions “what am I?” and “what are we?” at various times of life. Who I thought I and we were in high school differed radically from the answers I had in college, during my marriage, after reading Foucault, during and after my visits to Amsterdam, and, most markedly, after my “bipolar” experiences in 2011 and 2013. I had more concrete answers (even if “wrong”) before my so-called bipolar experiences. I have no way of explaining the experiences I’ve had any longer. The experiences happened, but they don’t fit into any explanatory categories that are even remotely satisfying or seemingly accurate on any level. I have utter disdain for those who attempt to define or explain bipolar disorder whereas I have the utmost respect for the nurse who once told me bluntly, “We have no idea what ‘bipolar’ is or what causes it.” At least she was honest and not trying to fit me or my experiences into a categorical box. Hell, I can’t even explain me let alone us.

I guess an easy, if unsatisfying, answer is that we are beings who want to know what we are. It seems like there should be some purpose for this need to know and perhaps it is to orient ourselves in the world, with (or against!) one another. My inclination is that the searching for an answer to this question serves a security-related purpose, not just for survival but for the release of anxiety and stress, so that we can feel safe and not have to worry about being killed, harmed, abandoned, or humiliated.

But maybe that’s just the starting point—if it is at all. The epistemology of "what we are" may be the beginning but perhaps not at all the end. My thinking, though, is that if the question remains mired in safety-related issues then we’re doomed to a particular type of societal morality, something akin to Bentham’s Panopticon. With surveillance cameras and data collection and analysis, Bentham’s architecture is obsolete. If it’s made clear enough through the dispersal of overarching rules of conduct then the threat of being watched persuades most to conform to certain modes of behavior, modes that, if repeated often enough over time, transform the internal thought processes and even emotional processes into a particular “shape” that no longer requires surveillance or control. The control mechanism has been internalized.

One interesting point about Bentham’s Panopticon is that it essentially replaced the internalized religious morality that was well on its way to breaking down as an internal locus of control. Bentham was essentially proposing an architectural (spatial) replacement for the omniscience and omnipotence of God. Today surveillance cameras, law enforcement, data collection, and the like combine to replace the all-seeing eye of God, imposing much the same confines of monotheistic morality on the public.

Foucault tackles Bentham’s Panopticon in Discipline and Punish and that’s where I first came across many of these ideas. Coming to grips with Foucault and accepting that he was more right about the world than I had been was a crushing blow. It disoriented me and threw me off my moors. A couple years ago I had a series of conversations about preferences and, I’d thought then, that there is no morality, just preferences. My thinking is that what I or you or anyone seems to do is semi-consciously identify preferences and proceed, over a lifetime, to mostly nonconsciously build up rules (often contradictory) that justify preferences. However, some of those rules are at odds with laws and cultural norms and other aspects of cultural/societal moralities. This creates not only conditions in which individuals are encouraged to hide who they are but also leads to subculture groupings of individuals (tribalism) based on certain behaviors, thoughts, practices.

Sociologists seem to believe humanity is like a statistically predictable solar system but I think there are asteroid belts everywhere ripping through planets and obliterating them and the sun constantly changes intensity making life unbearable on previously livable planets while opening up the possibility of new life on planets previously uninhabitable. I think that’s so because what makes one safe and secure in one culture makes one exposed and vulnerable in another. In a culture like ours, one with no real secure center, life is increasingly unbearable and so more desperate acts of diffusion occur; it’s like my paintings: there is no focal point. Anywhere you look you simply see something beginning to form and connect to something else that seems to be in the beginning stages of forming and connecting to something else that still hasn’t formed. Explanation is impossible because there are no coherent referents. We’re adrift in space without any moorings. Our individual moralities are facing the abyss and there is no comfort in doing what one thinks is right because often enough the response is cold, resounding silence.

But then … what are we?

Online Dating

So, the Internet. I’ve heard of it. I’ve used it. I went online for the first time in 1995. On a Mac. Or a Power Mac. Can’t remember. I think I had 16 MB of RAM. I was on Netscape, Yahoo! had just been launched but I mostly used Alta Vista for my searches. Maybe that’s why I discovered what I did instead of what everyone else seemed to be discovering at the time. Plus, I always went to the third or fourth page of searches. I wanted to see what the more obscure shit was. Back then, you sometimes did get just three or four pages of links instead of the hundreds of thousands or millions you can get now if you type in something like “Iraq.”

I remember following a random link, going to some Web site, some random guy’s personal home page he’d created for himself, and seeing blazing fire graphics in the background and going “Whoa!” It only took like ten minutes for the entire 4 MB of data on his Web page to download, too! Incredibly fast connection on my 56k dial-up modem! I think I was aware even then, though, that I’d probably be looking back on this later and laughing about it, thinking, “This is the equivalent of a Ford Model T and a decade from now I’ll probably be driving the equivalent of a Ferrari.” Another decade from now and we’ll be licking computer chips that taste like strawberry ice cream to virtually transport our thoughts to one another. A decade after that and the entirety of the earth could be transformed into a planet-sized brain, each of us no longer human beings but neurons and groups of us neuron clusters. I, myself, will merely be a memory of all my moments as a human being, a lifetime the Earth Brain might lackadaisically recall while daydreaming shortly after mind-fucking Jupiter.

At some point, though, I realized I was no longer needed by the online world. It was not I, my vigilant appreciation of amateur art, nor even my surprise at what some women were willing to do with certain vegetables that kept the WWW going. Somehow, it grew up and out without much input from me. However, it's never too late to add to the growth of the Web. I’ve never tried online dating. I’ve looked at dating sites, even signed up for one once, but I never pursued anything. I've never hooked up with anyone through a computer. I’ve always done it the old fashioned way: Swaggering about town wearing a special cologne made of Spanish fly, blood from the balls of a castrated bull, and one ingredient that shall remain unknown, my secret ingredient, one that has been passed down to me from the Heavens, the gods smiling on me for no damn good reason, ignoring the plights of so many other unfortunate souls absent a ravenous libido and a cock that doodle-doos all night long.

But I need to try dating online or text dating just because it’s something I've never done. I don’t have a bucket list because that seems like too much of a commitment; I’m not ready for such a serious long-term relationship. One thing at a time and then whatever comes next. The following is the pitch I’m going to put online later this week. Here goes:

I am looking for a woman.

I think.

No, really, I’m almost completely sure I’m looking for a woman.

But you know, now that I think about it, I’m not 100 percent sure.

Don’t get me wrong, I am attracted to women. It’s just that a recent change in my life has led me to question … everything. Yet again. This is like the fiftieth time I’ve had to do this so far in life. That seems excessive to me. It seems like I should have more stability than this.

Unless it’s because I’m always growing intellectually, emotionally, spiritually, and physically. But that last part, is that true? Maybe, maybe more than common sense has led me to believe. But this is not a science lesson, I am not going to expound on my theories of human nature! Not on a computer dating site, you fool!

My God, do you really think I’m that kind of guy, the kind of guy who would bore you with triflings from his registered genius IQ, exhaust you with tales of his adventures from around the world, or make you yawn excessively by taking you to parties populated by wealthy, beautiful artists who have been preparing for years to pleasure the next woman who chooses to take me out to dinner and buy me drinks, to fill the trust fund of the next lover who makes me forget I've ever had sex, and to fulfill every desire of the one whose look brings me to my knees? I would never insult your dignity or integrity with such tripe.

No, instead I offer you merely a chance to spend time with me, to be in my presence, to give me your attention, to shower me with affection, to adore me, to worship my mind, to caress my body, to give me eternal life and infinite love. If you’re up to the challenge, please, respond to my ad. If not, then fuck off!

What I Write

I was at a coffeeshop today and a woman walked up to me to ask me what I was doing. I looked up from my laptop and told her I was writing. She asked what I was writing. I didn't want to answer, but she asked again, as if I hadn't heard her. I relented and said, "I write many things. Poetry, fiction, nonfiction. Haiku, sonnets, free form, short stories, plays, articles. I play with style, form, grammar; I let my mind wander, fantasize about what I haven't experienced, record what I have. Science fiction, horror, magical realism, surrealism, absurdity, philosophy, history, cultural studies, it doesn't matter, I write it all. I write short sentences. I write very long and involved sentences, compound and complex, sentences that grow word after word after word until, suddenly, they end. I write what I see, I write what I think, I write what I feel, I write what I know and what I don't. Like I said, I write it all."

I paused to allow her the chance to speak. Her eyes were glazed and I wondered how much of what I'd said had registered. I didn't care and since she said nothing I continued. "I can keep going if you want. I once wrote about how the universe began, a creation story that, in my opinion, rivals the ridiculousness of Genesis. Right now I'm writing about an art event I attended three years ago. Yesterday I wrote an entire journal entry using three-word sentences: 'I am here. You are there. I hate you. You love me. Love is good. Hate is, too.' Do you see? Are you privy? Ya feel me? Get my jib? I see you. You see me? Are you there? Hello, you there? That was it. I am done. Now, your turn. Want to speak?"

She didn't get it. She just stared at me. Her jaw was slack and her eyes were dead. I gave her some rope. "Sorry, I guess three-word sentences can be hypnotic. I'm sure your ability to speak will return shortly, but since you seem to currently be living in your own private Never-Never Land I'm going to take this opportunity to ask you if I could write you naked." I paused to see if anything registered. Her eyebrows raised and her nose twitched a bit. Signs of life. I continued, "What I mean is, would you be willing to pose nude for me while I write the curves of your body in prose? Lyrical prose, obviously, because your body, from what I can see through your clothes, has soft, supple slopes and rises that demand poetic interpretation. I don't think poetry is quite right, but lyrical prose seems perfect. Of course, I'd have to see you without any clothes, look at you from different angles while you transition from pose to pose. Even with clothes, though, I can tell that graphic realism would not capture how you really look. In fact, it would distort the liquidity of your movements, the way your muscles dance with your bones. I can also tell by the uncertainty hiding behind your brown eyes that too much detail would make you uncomfortable. This suggests a discomfort with your body, with me, or possibly both your body and me ... your naked body observed and described by me."

I stopped speaking and looked at her, putting my hand to my chin while tilting my head this way and that as if I were studying her physical appearance. I wasn't; I was mimicking in order to create the illusion that I was studying her. I wanted to see how she'd react. Her body had become decidedly more tense and her eyebrows whispered to her eyes, "What should we do? I'm simultaneously frightened and intrigued." I lowered my head and slumped in my chair, letting her off the hook. I gave out a laugh and looked up at her with a teasing grin. "Hey, don't freak. I'm just playing with you. I mean, yeah, I want to write you naked, but, I mean, do you think I really expect you to acquiesce just like that?" I sat back in my seat and sighed happily. The woman seemed to lighten up a bit as I saw the inklings of a smile and the muscles of her face relax. Her body once again displayed her liquidity.

She opened her mouth as if to speak but I jumped in quickly to catch her with her guard down: "I mean, we haven't even kissed yet. I certainly don't expect you to take off your clothes before we kiss." I winked at her and smiled slyly, moving not an inch in my chair. She shook her head side to side slowly, giving me a "you rascal!" grin. She took advantage of my silence and spoke. "Well ... I did not expect all of that," she waived her arms around, gesturing wildly, "when I asked you what you write. You are full of yourself, aren't you?" I responded, "Well, you seemed half empty and I was overflowing so it all equals out in the end. I've got more of me in the trunk of my car if you'd like a six-pack to take home with you."

She spoke again, more life in her voice and spunk in her tone, as if she'd finally realized that the muscles in her throat were good for more than breathing and swallowing. Her eyes peered intensely and she moved her body in a much more animated way. I'd tuned out the words she was speaking, paying attention mainly to the nonverbal communication being delivered. Flirting is a tricky thing, especially with a complete stranger. In this case, I felt it wise to let her rant runs its course. I turned away from her and began writing. As she slowed, I turned back to her, looking up at her with wide eyes and an open-mouthed grin.

"You've just given me a great idea. Thank you so much for saying those things! Brilliant! I'm sorry to cut this conversation short but I have to capitalize on the inspiration before it dissipates. The way of the writer. You understand, I'm sure."

I began to turn back to the computer but quickly turned back to her as if I'd forgotten to tell her something. "I'm going to be here tomorrow evening, probably around seven. I planned on having a little caffeine, doing some writing, and then going out for a drink and a bite to eat. I'd enjoy seeing you again if you're free." I turned back to the computer and began writing extraordinarily mundane sentences with great intensity. Not one of them flowed together, but I was certain that I looked inspired.

After a few moments she walked past me toward the door, pausing half way there to look back. I saw with peripheral vision an awed but confused look and then a quick shake of the head as she walked out the door. I continued tapping away until she was completely out of sight. I picked up my drink and took a sip, leaning back in my chair. I sighed while realizing I'd just made plans for the next day. I couldn't tell if she had or not, but that's part of the fun, isn't it?

Scattershot Randomball

Scattershot randomball. No painting. Until there were painters there. Then we were all painting. I painted jasper whispers dancing on fig leaves in between bolts of melting sun rays. Horace painted fragrances and allowances for dallying. Potato mashing and skull scraping was the subject of a joint work by Alice and Groozy. Everyone came to life, though, when they saw the golden chalice cascading goodness from the painting of Maya Belisweather. The room smelled of dandelions and ripened mangoes.

Why don’t we have a party? asked Philip.

Of course! shouted the rest of us in unison.

So we threw a party. There was food and wine and dildos. Several guests fucked on a 120 x 180 canvas. I splashed oil paints on them now and then so they could leave a representation of their pleasure for us. I drank a wonderful cabernet while watching Alice and Groozy grind crimson and lime green paint into the canvas. Debbie and Horace were creating streaks of burnt umber and metallic rusted orange several feet away. All together, we created a divine work. I may exhibit it in my bathroom early next month. Or I’ll use it for wiping my ass … then exhibit it in my bathroom. Yup.

On the way to Mr. Lollipop’s Shop, Fred and I stopped at Kate’s to have a spin at Warble Dither. Kate didn’t answer when we knocked so we let ourselves inside. That was perhaps a bit presumptuous of us. Jeni, Kate’s older sister, was lying naked on the couch fingering herself while pumping a dildo in and out of her ass. She was writhing and moaning and her eyes were closed so she didn’t see us come in at all. I turned to look at Fred and saw his jaw dangling, his eyes bugging out of his head, and drool dripping from his chin that … was … just … about … to … YES! There it went. He kept on staring, though. Jeni, meanwhile, was getting louder and louder until Kate, naked as a jay bird herself, came running out into the living room yelling “You gotta hurry up cause J. D. and Fred are gonna be here any—”

That’s when Kate saw Fred. I had never seen honey-white skin turn hot pink so quickly in my life. Oh, but it gets worse. Much worse. Fred had unzipped his fly, fished his cock out of his pants, and was furiously pounding his pecker. He didn’t even realize Kate was in the room. So Jeni’s oblivious of everyone, Fred’s oblivious of everyone but Jeni, Kate’s aware of everyone but me, and I’m aware of everyone. When Kate realized Fred hadn’t seen her, she turned back to look at Jeni. Then she looked back at Fred. Then she started fingering herself! Just as Kate started to warm up and groan, Jeni opened her eyes. She was having an orgasm judging by the pitched squeal of her shrieking.

The look on her face was like none I’d ever seen before and perhaps never will again. She was in acute ecstasy yet extreme shock while also being utterly humiliated. All of which, taken together, was extraordinarily hot. Fred, apparently feeling the same way, blew his load in the general direction of Jeni, the farthest reach of which landed several feet short of the couch. I noticed just how dingy the beige carpet was after seeing Fred’s stringy white glob of goo contrasted against it.

Kate, unbeknownst to me, noticed me while I was admiring the gooey addition to the room. Apparently caught up in the spirit of the moment, she marched over to me and grabbed my cock through my jeans. Some girls might have been more discrete, perhaps even stealthily disappearing from the room as unnoticeably as possible. Kate? When she wanted to fuck, she wanted to fuck. So we fucked.

When we’d all come and had our fill we showered together and got dressed before hailing a cab and heading to Mozelly’s. Alan was there with his pal, Vincent. We all hugged and sat down for rounds of beers and a night of laughter. I thought to myself on and off throughout the evening, “This is home. I am home.” At times, nostalgia for the very moment crept into my chest and pushed the water level up to my lower eyelids. It was a cozy, warm night among friends and lovers.

At the end of the night, as we stumbled outside after last call, Alan suggested we do this every Thursday for the rest of our lives. Jeni said yes, of course. Kate was along for the ride. Fred, too. Vincent had left an hour earlier, but no doubt he’d have been drunk enough to make a commitment he’d inevitably forget. It was funny to watch. Everyone seemed to take turns stumbling into the middle of the group saying louder and louder “no, seriously, no seriously, No seriously, No Seriously, NO SERIOUSLY!” then everyone would become sort of dumbstruck and blankly blink their eyes waiting for the next fool in the center to declare that “Seriously, I love you guys. No, I mean, really. Yeah, I know, it’s easy to say, yeah, we’re all drunk, in the morning none of it will mean anything, but I say bullshit! I mean, it doesn’t matter what type of clothes you wear, how old you are, how much money you make, what kind of car you drive, where you were born, whether you like to suck cock or not—”

There was always one wise guy at this point who’d slur “blow me” at just the right moment, as if on cue, and crack everyone else up. Someone would then fall down, still laughing their ass off on the ground, causing most of the people still standing to clutch their bellies and laugh even harder. There was always one drunken yahoo who would become a boorish ass while embracing the mantle of the “Responsible One.” He or she would be the one who would say, as everyone else is laughing, “Hey, what if she’s really hurt? Sally, are you bleeding at all? Maybe you should just lie still for a while? Does anyone here know CPR? You know, just in case? I was in 4-H so I can probably handle anything that comes up.” Huh? 4-H? What the fuck? Oh, well. Anyway, that always seems to happen, but everyone just makes fun of that dolt and keeps on laughing anyway.

I was quite happy that night. Birds randomly flocked to me, tweeting and flitting about my head. Squirrels scampered near my feet, rabbits hopped alongside me, raccoons scurried on ahead of me, lions roared their approval of me, elephants sounded their trumpets whenever my name was spoken, and nubile young virgins from around the world imagined my visage as they masturbated in anticipation of one day handing themselves over to me. Yes, it was a time of joy in my life.

Storytelling

I spoke at a storytelling event recently. The theme was narrowed to migration but with a lot of room to work. Immigration, emigration, nomadic migration, moving, movement … the body in motion. I thought about the one thing that comes with me wherever I go: my body. It is the “I” that I refer to as if “I” was something other than the body. How could it be? All I know is through this vessel.

Except that I get flashes that seem to come from nowhere, spontaneous thoughts and presences that rise from somewhere beneath me or come from somewhere beyond me or exist within another universe I can feel as an internal organ, taking up space inside of me. But, still, I experience them within my body even if they seemingly come from outside of it. Which puts it all back to the age old question of perception. A commitment to perceptual reality at the expense of sensory experience or contemplation of theories or speculative hypothesizing or imaginative daydreaming or stream of consciousness blathering.

Flowing like a stream, floating like a butterfly, falling like a feather, wafting like the smell of pie cooling on a window sill. Splashing like a toddler in a bath, gurgling like an old man who can’t clear his throat, shuffling hesitantly like a dog about to give way and die. These were the thoughts I was thinking at the event. They were only marginally part of the story I told. The fragments I have thus far written here were utterances in a somewhat different story I told there.

As I listened to the stories of others I thought, “I know what she’s going to say next” and then she’d surprise me with a left uppercut that made me dizzy and ready to go down if she landed another clean blow. But for some reason she backed off and didn’t put me away. I’m not sure why, I was there for the taking, the title would have been hers, but she just didn’t have that killer instinct. I was left in limbo, wondering what her story was about, if it was anything other than a snapshot of life’s relative meaninglessness. Throughout the night there were stories of struggles, trivialities, mundane events, obvious observations, random curiosities, lethargic dramas, a sense of being judged without the courage to be vulnerable.

Did I know more than the rest of them? As I told my story I wondered. I thought of Apple Jacks but decided against mentioning that. But I also wondered whether they knew more than I did, if they could sense that I thought they had not thought the thoughts I was thinking and that they were secretly being patient with me because I, poor fool, just didn’t know that I only knew what I knew. But then I remembered I am usually open to being wrong and, in fact, believe that I am always wrong but must commit with certainty each moment to my wrongness until the evidence dictates that I change course for reasons as simple as allowing needs and desires to inform, through the body by way of emotions, what the issue is during any particular moment. If those in the coffee shop knew this, and indefinitely more, then I could perhaps be even more of myself than I had thought I could be. If I be judged then judge me as I am.

But how could I convey who I am in any significant way in less than ten minutes? "Cartwheels, Jumping jacks, weird facial expressions, wild hand gestures, flailing arms, weird walking, adopting strange postures, talking in strange voices, randomly changing from one pitch to another tone to a scream to a whisper, bug-eyed, eyes closed, nostrils flaring, fists pumping, feet stomping, cheeks puffed out, head bobbing, hair waving, body writhing, Hallelujah, Glory Be, 2001: A Space Odyssey, I formation play action pass to the tight end splitting the safeties and getting behind the linebacker down the seam for the go-ahead touchdown! Amen."

A woman decided she’d had enough of me babbling on and on. She stood up, waved her hand, and announced, “Enough!” I stopped speaking and everyone looked at her. “I’ve decided that I need to speak now.” I stepped to the side of the stage and gestured for her to come up. “I’ve been listening to this man speak, as have all of you, and I am struck by the absurdity of his way of viewing the world. Or, at least, this persona he’s created for himself. What the hell are we to do with all of this, Mr. Man?”

I stood to the side as she glared at me. I tilted my head up as if in thought but I was blank, just allowing emotions to roll over me. I felt hoopty-doopty. I snapped my head down and spoke with urgency, “Woman, I do not know your name, but I can assure you that my gibberish is no more nonsensical than that of those who came before me. Please, allow me to continue and I will give you an orgasm later.”

The woman shrugged her shoulders as if to say, “Eh, I expected more but I’ll take what I can get.” The show was free after all; it wasn't like anyone was paying to listen or anything. Just bullshit flowing freely. A smile on a few faces now. More silliness to follow. I gave them hoops of laughter, jaunty bits of juicy gossip, ooh-la-la’s and French Frenching, sloshy boots, wet mittens, waterfront tacos, oozing yellow cupcakes, jalapeno milkshakes, and frosty guava rum with chilled pineapple tequila served in half-moon melon rind ... nothing but fun.

…

da-da ma-ma

Giving your coworkers coffee cups filled with molasses is a funny practical joke, but I’ve been told that having sex with their spouses in front of a webcam is not.

John Grisham claims elves living in the medicine cabinet of his second floor bathroom wrote most of The Firm.

I have met many people; I know none of them.

Mao Tse-Tung never existed. A General Electric executive spoke of a nightmare about a Chinese tyrant and the CIA clandestinely spread the story to further American Cold War interests. Unbeknownst to most Westerners, contemporary China is a relatively undeveloped agrarian wonderland benignly ruled by the immortal emperor Chu Yüan-chang.

Turning my head for a moment, but meandering in the same direction, I might ask whether or not the trellis of a Queen Anne provides a telling snapshot of the Victorian Era. Is it a DNA sampling of a moment in time, a double helix of Industrialism?

In the coming decades, an Egyptian woman will shit several pounds of nutrient-rich cheese puffs every day at noon for approximately one year. The daily miracle will go unnoticed except by a band of invisible gnomes who will alter the course of human civilization when they subliminally persuade a future U.S. President to colonize Mexico and most of Central America, excluding only Honduras and Costa Rica for reasons that will always remain mysterious.

Doubts about the meanings of these words will cripple society.

Endless shibboleths, darkness and decay, misery and shame, not meted or feted, but bandied, ransacked, made raw, too hasty for generalizations, too slow for specifics, a night lost in the armor of self-loathing and pitied by an endless cast of hypocritical well-wishers and slanderous gossip whisperers. No vice too wicked, no virtue too pious, all matters ending and beginning again for no apparent reason other than the recycling of experience. Sitting still is as meaningful as running around, loafing as worthwhile as laboring, and starving as fulfilling as supping. The point then is what you make of it.

But doesn’t that also mean killing can be as honorable as caring? If our minds determine right or wrong rather than innate universal morals or ethics then peace must oppress those who long for violence as much as violence oppresses those who long for peace. Is ours a sick world or is this what a healthy civilization is like? Can there be anything but replays of domination and submission? When you’re checkmated, what happens next?

It is almost impossible to be too soft, to open a hand wide enough. Tenderness is a generous gift. If received genuinely it is love; if it is ridiculed it becomes a vice. What is a vice? A vice is a grip, a clamp around the heart that squeezes harder the more one struggles to be free. Blood drains until there is nothing. Your hopes, dreams, and aspirations? Gone. Fears, frustrations, angers, suspicions? Manifestations of the absence of love. Manic laughter? A burst of excitement in the form of giggles, but ultimately unsustainable. Then comes the crash, the sensation of burning, of suffering without end … except that it changes again.

Wisps of willow snap at you in a hail storm making you wince, exposing the crud caked on your teeth, disfiguring your appearance even though you insist that it isn’t representative of who you are or what you really look like when the lights are dim and you’ve had a few drinks.

Whatever else I may be I am a way of generating events in the world.

When I’m sprinting down a hill, not too steep but adequately inclined, I start to lose track of my body. One moment, my consciousness is a foot or so ahead of me, the next it’s fallen behind a step or two. In these moments I want to give in to the thought that I can just let my body keep going down the hill while I explore the rest of the universe, escape time and space to discover what’s really worth knowing. But the moment I think that I lose speed, make a misstep, and my mind throttles back into my head. I’m jarred, disoriented, suddenly uncoordinated and heavy. For a few moments I’m more trapped than before, trapped in a moment of time in a particular location within my body yet unable to dictate the little things that I usually handle well. In this fashion I have discovered what it is to be a conscious invalid. It’s horrifying and, yet, there’s also a part of me awed by being rag-dolled into physical helplessness with such ease. Just when I think I’m hopelessly confined, the possibilities extend by contracting even further. I eventually regain my step and suddenly I’m alive again, feeling as if I am god-like in my control of my body.

I interpret the energy from my surrounding environment as the intentions others have for my movements. I believe my body movements are controlled by others and that thoughts and feelings are implanted in my mind without my consent. These interpretations and beliefs, I have been told, are delusions.

I morphed into an abalone and was dipped in absinthe before being plopped into the mouth of a displaced Palestinian farmer. I was nourishment for a generation of forgotten Cossacks. I didn’t think it was important until I started having nightmares about driveways covered with silk and bananas. Feelings of nausea would subside only to be replaced by a Sombrero. No one ever dreads moments of happiness. At least, they never mention it in my living room when they’re admiring the plants. What I don’t want to do is stop listening to your reasons for loving me. Underlining words that designate sounds is a habit I’d like to break. Compound sentences are not always necessary, but I like to use them at times. I need to clear my head right now and think about where I am.

I’m in the dining room of a spaceship. I intend to eat the chocolate pudding on the table. But first I’ll take a sip of the Diet Coke I’m holding in my hand. I am a member of a crew of seven NASA scientists delivering five hundred evangelical Christians to a space station orbiting Venus. Why? To colonize the gaseous planet with settlers and to spread the word of God in case there are any intelligent life forms there. I think the mission is absurd, impossible, and suicidal, but I've wanted to die for years and this voyage seemed like a fitting exit from this life.

Is the creation of artificial competition necessary in a world which has always provided a natural competitive challenge requiring humans to collaborate to survive?

I can split fingers and shape rocks with my eyelids, fart knuckles of shame into your skull, eat pages of the Talmud and spit fire into your loins, conjure a cloud of hate to rain pellets of blood onto the ashes of Chechnya, raise the mezzanine another level and transport floating chalices of sputum into the hands of neuroscientists lounging at sidewalk cafés in Brussels, gasp inaudibly at the sight of Burger King executives, share glances with an unpublished novelist at a book fair in Toronto, sing like an angel during the seventh inning stretch at a minor league baseball game in Florida, and eat sand-filled crab cakes at cocktail parties for excommunicated Jesuits.

I was reading a book on writing and it mentioned something about maturity, something about how exploring deep, complex, intimate relationships was a sign of “depth” in fiction. But then what of the voice of the discarded, the alienated, the freakish, and excluded, those who cannot maintain or even begin intimate relationships? Not just because they or others are incapable, but perhaps because no one finds them desirable. That seems like a sign of “depth” in fiction, to explore this lack. The idea of putting limits at all seems absurd. Not just in fiction, either. But also in someone else’s apartment, their fishbowl, their Grapenuts, their dresser drawers, and even their toilet. None of those things should be limited to just their thisness or thatness. Instead, they should be allowed the possibility of containing an entire history, living organisms capable of change and misinterpretation, made into malleable stories and distorted narratives, perhaps a truth located on the list of Daily Recommended Allowances or forgotten in the back of a cupboard, a love that used to forget to flush, a mix of sad songs left in your stereo to tell you she’s left for good.

The categorization of thoughts arising from memories makes possible a functional interaction with the environment while disabling the possibility of self-realization.

When the phone rings just once late at night, does it leave you in a panic, wondering if someone you care for is being attacked and in an act of desperation hit his or her speed dial just a moment before the burglar/rapist/murderer snatched the phone from his or her hand and smashed it against the wall? Dear God, it’s three in the morning, should I just go back to sleep or call my loved ones to make sure they’re okay? I can’t move, paralyzed from the fear that they’re pleading with a serial killer for a mercy that doesn’t exist. My eyes flash from side to side, I see shadows creeping up the wall, the ceiling presses down on me, and a flower blooming in my neighbor’s garden is fucking a bee. I’m slipping into my mind again and I don’t want to come back out. Please let me lie underneath the selflessness of my aborted awareness and under-exist while willing my thoughts into oblivion. I’m burdened, though, with the painful knowledge that will itself is the culprit preventing my dissolution.

“Horror” may be a contextual aspect of my emotional experience but if so the formulaic definition of horror disrupts the endlessly spiraling coil of emotional pi I uniquely experience as a pathway through life that is utterly random while simultaneously perceptually predictable through the application of compartmentalization.

Interests I’m cultivating: defecating while humming; gargling urine; killing flies; burning sandpaper; eating hummus; chewing on bark; placing haikus in empty beer bottles and throwing them at concrete embankments near seldom traveled interstate underpasses; reading the backs of cereal boxes; caressing my inner thighs with thistles; burping during funeral eulogies; smearing soiled underwear on my windows; writing down my interests; driving into telephone poles; sitting on the sidewalk; laughing at my reflection in the mirror; pretending to listen to other people who talk to me; saying things I don’t mean; examining the origins of language; creating shadow puppets with my penis; interrogating denizens of coffee shops; staring wickedly at restaurateurs.

Ah, shit. We’re dead. The universe began when God took a dump. Human consciousness is cosmic exudate. Death is our hope to end the stink of existence.

The Inside of the Moon!

[Man (GIL) walks into kitchen. Sitting at the kitchen table is a woman (ANN)]

GIL My fucking computer locked up again. [looks in refrigerator]

ANN [look of contempt on her face]

GIL [still looking in refrigerator] I said the computer locked up again!

ANN [contempt] I heard you the first time.

GIL [closes refrigerator door and looks at Ann] What’s your problem?

ANN [holds up used condom] This is my fucking problem!

GIL [look of disgust]

ANN I found it in the recycling bin.

GIL Yeah? So you decided to pick it up?

ANN I want to know what the fuck it was doing in the recycling bin, asshole?!

GIL Being recycled, of course!

[cutaway to man in suit standing in midst of used condoms waist-high]

MAN Being recycled, of course. Hello, I’m Sam Meadows, president of Forskack Recycling and Haircare products. At Forskack, we take great pride in our environmentally-friendly hair care products made from recycled condoms. Our skilled technicians [cut to shot of scientists in laboratory] recycle the latex to create containers for shampoo and other hair care products. [cut back to Sam] Our experts have also devised ways to incorporate sperm into shampoos, conditioners, hairsprays, and many other products. You see, sperm has more protein than either plant extracts or synthetic chemicals, and it’s this protein that differentiates our products from our competitors’ and makes your hair shinier and healthier. When you buy Forskack products, you not only help the environment, you help yourself! [big smile]

[cutaway to angry, picket-waving protestors in front of Forskack building. Lots of screaming]

WOMAN WITH PLACARD They’re sickies! Sickies!

[pan back to reveal reporter (JACK) standing with microphone in foreground]

JACK As you can see, Bob, a mob of angry protestors have gathered to voice their disgust and outrage in front of the Forskack building. Interestingly, all of the protestors are lesbians. [cut to television station anchorman (BOB)]

BOB Really? What seems to be the reason for this anti-Forskack protest? [cut to JACK]

JACK [hesitates] Uh, I’m not really sure. I can however tell you that I’ve been getting laid a lot more since I started using Forskack products. [cut to BOB]

BOB Really? [raised eyebrows and contemplative look in eyes] Uh, so. . . I’m sorry, how often do you get laid? [cut to JACK]

JACK Oh, believe me, I’m getting’ it on whenever I want, which is basically all the time. In fact, one of the protestors is actually bisexual and we got to talkin’ and after this report we’re plannin’ on— [cut to BOB]

BOB Ho, wait a minute! How often did you get laid before? [cut to JACK]

JACK Hell, I hardly even think about those days. I know it was never like this, though. There’s just somethin’ ‘bout that musky, salty smell of cum that seems to really drive—Huh, oh. Okay. Uh, Bob, I have an update. One of the protestors just handed me a leaflet. Apparently, they think that Forskack is discriminating against lesbians. It seems that the protestors would like an alternative line of hair care products using menstrual blood as the primary ingredient. There are some statistics in the leaflet claiming that menstrual blood is in fact even higher in protein than sperm. Bob? [cut to BOB]

BOB [hand on chin, nodding head slightly] Thanks, Jack. Jack Hinsley. [turns to camera] Breaking news. I’ve just been told that there has been another nursing home shooting in Hillsborough County. Details are sketchy at the moment. This is tragic, shocking news, following so closely on the heels of Knoxville nursing home shooting spree. And—uh, apparently we’re going to go live to the scene now. Our own Guy Kilstensen is on the scene. Guy? [cut to GUY]

GUY Yes, Bob. We’re on the scene at Shady Meadows Nursing Home in Littlesburg. Details are sketchy, but apparently one of the residents, an elderly male, opened fire on staff and other residents with a semi-automatic handgun. What set this off, we don’t know. Police are trying to establish a perimeter and deal with the situation, but it’s too early to tell if anyone is hurt. I’m going to try to get inside and see what’s going on. [cut to BOB]

BOB Are you sure that’s a good idea, Guy? [cut to GUY]

GUY Oh, yeah. My grandmother used to be a resident. I know the layout pretty well. I think I can sneak in through the maintenance door. [Guy and camera man begin making way into building]

BOB Um, Guy?—[cut to GUY inside building]

GUY [harsh whisper] We’re inside Bob. Oh, did you hear that? I think it was a gunshot.

BOB (V.O.) Guy, I don’t think—

GUY [loudly] Oh, shit! [old man with gun waddles around corner at end of hallway in background] Wait, I don’t think he sees us. Apparently there are two people—oh jeez! There are two people cowering under a gurney near the crazed old man. [old man stops walking, turns toward GUY]

OLD MAN [pleading look in his eyes] Will you touch my Johnson? Please touch my Johnson. My Johnson’s so lonely. [starts walking toward GUY]

GUY Oh shit! [drops mic and starts running past cameraman and offscreen. Cameraman shrieks as gun is pointed at him and fired. He screams and camera crashes to ground, still in focus, aimed at two guys cowering under gurney. Old Man keeps walking toward camera till off screen muttering over and over: “He shoulda touched my Johnson.” Cut to different angle on two guys under gurney (HENRY and JOSH). HENRY is dressed in suit, JOSH in orderly uniform]

HENRY Oh, Jesus. Let’s get the fuck out of here.

JOSH There’s no way outta here except the way that crazy old fool was walking. There’s only a window that drops three stories down to the parking lot, man.

HENRY That’s alright, I’ve got a plan. [gets up and starts making way toward window at end of hallway]

JOSH What the fu—

HENRY Come on—What’s your name?

JOSH Josh.

HENRY I’m Henry. Let’s go, alright?

JOSH There’s no fuckin’ way out man.

HENRY Ha! Just follow me. [walks to window and opens it. Pushes screen out. Leans out window] Oh, butterfly? Butterfly? Where’s my giant butterfly?!

JOSH [look of terror, as if realizing that this guy, too, might just pull out a gun and start blastin’ away]

HENRY There you are! [giant cartoon butterfly flutters near window. Henry turns to Josh] Come on, Josh, let’s go!

JOSH Uh uh. [sound of old man shuffling and mumbling, grows louder, louder]

HENRY Josh, don’t be a fool!

JOSH [looks down hallway, offscreen. Eyes grow wide, scrambles to feet and runs for window.

[cut to scene with Henry and Josh flying on back of giant cartoon butterfly against cartoon backdrop of blue sky and fluffy clouds. Henry sings a song as JOSH smiles and looks all around. Song culminates with HENRY suggesting that they flutter to the moon. Cut to JOSH and HENRY on the moon]

HENRY Well, here we are!

JOSH How is this possible? We can’t fly to the moon on the back of a butterfly?!

HENRY We just did, didn’t we?

JOSH What the fuck’s going on?! I mean, how can we breathe? There’s no oxygen!

HENRY HA! No oxygen? On the moon? HA! Where’d you get that idea?

JOSH Uh, science, textbooks, Neil Armstrong.

HENRY Oh, for the love of—propaganda. All a bunch of propaganda meant to keep us OFF the moon. Big government cover-up.

JOSH Why would the government want to keep us from coming to the moon? Why the hell would anyone want to come to the moon?!

HENRY Because it’s paradise, of course.

JOSH [looks around at bleak landscape] This is paradise?

HENRY Not the outside of the moon, dumb shit. The inside of the moon! Come on!

[cut to big sign proclaiming “Inside of Moon” with arrow pointing down to trap door. HENRY and JOSH walk up to sign, HENRY opens door and both climb down. Cut to JOSH and HENRY walking around inside of moon: wondrous Willy Wonka-like landscape]

JOSH Wow, this is incredible!

HENRY I know. It’s the inside of the moon.

JOSH [spots something off screen] What are those?

HENRY Those? [cut to big boulders that look like huge golden hairy human asses sticking out of ground] Those are gold-bearing hairy asses!

JOSH Gold-bearing hairy asses?!

HENRY Yeah.

JOSH Why are they called gold-bearing hairy asses?

HENRY Because they’re hairy asses that have gold bars in ‘em.

JOSH What the fuck?!

HENRY Go ahead. Reach in and grab one.

JOSH Fuck you! You grab one.

HENRY I’ve already got plenty of gold bars.

JOSH I ain’t stickin’ my fuckin’ hand in some-hairy-assed sphincter!

HENRY You are such a pussy.

JOSH Fuck off, man!

HENRY No, you fuck off. I saved your ass.

JOSH Bullshit!

HENRY Please. You were fucking cowering underneath the gurney, afraid to fly on my butterfly. A big fucking pussy!

JOSH You call me a pussy again and I’ll break your fuckin’ head open.

HENRY Fine. I guess you enjoy living in poverty. Take you five seconds to grab a gold bar, but what the fuck? You like eatin’ raman noodles night after night?

JOSH Okay, okay. But if I don’t get a gold bar . . . [sticks hand in one of the asses and pulls out a gold bar] Holy shit!! A fucking gold bar! [rubs bar against cheek affectionately]

HENRY [look of disgust] Um, I’m not sure that’s a good idea.

JOSH Oh! So I can just take this back to Earth?

HENRY Oh yeah, sure. Well, except ...

JOSH What? Except what?

HENRY Uh, well, um . . . I guess you should, you should probably—

JOSH What?!

HENRY Uh, you’ll probably have to, uh, check with the, uh, Emperor, I guess, first.

JOSH Emperor?

HENRY Yeah. The Emperor of the Inside of the Moon.

JOSH The Emperor of the Inside of the Moon?

HENRY Yeah. The Emperor rules the inside of the moon. So, you’ll probably have to check with him first.

JOSH [looks dejected]

HENRY Oh, don’t worry. I’m sure he’ll let you take the gold bar. He’s a really, really, really nice guy. Come on.

[cut to giant throne with tiny man sitting on it, attempting to throw playing cards into a top hat about ten feet away. He constantly misses and every time he misses he yells “fuck” “shit” “piss and farts” “lord of the apes” “Quayle” “pedophilia” etc. HENRY and JOSH eventually walk into screen]

HENRY Hello, Emperor of the Inside of the Moon.

EMPEROR Huh? Oh, hello Henry. [looks at JOSH] Who’s this ugly son of a bitch?

JOSH [a little hurt] Hey!

HENRY Oh, this is Josh. Josh, this is the Emperor of the Inside of the Moon.

JOSH [warily] Hello.

EMPEROR [nods and then starts tossing cards again—“fucking whore” “son of a cock-loving toe-sucker”]

HENRY Ah, Emperor? Emperor?

EMPEROR Huh? Oh, yeah, right. What can I do for you?

HENRY Well Josh was just—

JOSH Can I take this gold bar back to Earth?

EMPEROR Sure. No problem. What do I care?

JOSH Oh, thank you, thank you so much. I really appreciate this. This is just—

EMPEROR Of course, you’ll have to commit suicide first.

JOSH Excuse me?

EMPEROR You’re gonna have to kill yourself.

JOSH That’s insane.

EMPEROR Bullshit. It’s completely sane. It’s the only way.

JOSH Why? Why do I have to kill myself?

EMPEROR Because I’m the Emperor of the Inside of the Moon.

JOSH That’s stupid.

EMPEROR It is not. It’s actually quite brilliant.

JOSH I’m not gonna fuckin’ kill myself.

EMPEROR Well, then you’re not gonna take the gold bar.

JOSH This is fucking ridiculous!

EMPEROR This is the inside of the moon. This is entirely sensible and logical. You’re really making a big deal out of nothing.

HENRY The Emperor’s right, Josh.

JOSH If I kill myself, then I won’t be able to—I mean what would be the point of . . . it just doesn’t make any sense!

EMPEROR You’ll be fine. You won’t actually die. When you commit suicide here, you don’t actually die. You just end up back on earth.

JOSH [confused]

HENRY I’ve done it hundreds of times.

JOSH Really?

HENRY Oh yeah. It’s no sweat.

JOSH Well, I suppose. I mean I flew on a giant butterfly earlier today, what the hell.

[everybody starts chuckling]

EMPEROR Oh, this is grand. Okay, let’s see. I know I’ve got some rope around here somewhere [starts rummaging under throne]. Damn I can’t find—Ah—no, never mind. Say you guys don’t happen to have a gun or a knife or somethin’ do ya?

[JOSH and HENRY look at one another and shrug, shaking their heads]

HENRY ‘Fraid not.

EMPEROR Damn! I coulda sworn I had—Wait a minute [bumps his head on throne] Ow! Dear Mother of a Busty Horn-Blower!! Jeez! [rubs his head] Oh yeah, um—

JOSH Did you find somethin’?

EMPEROR No. But . . . [steps down from throne] you could just jump into the mouth of the meat-eating flower.

HENRY That’s a great idea. Oh, that’s—you are such a great Emperor.

EMPEROR Thank you. Do you really think so?

HENRY Oh, you’re the best. The best, no doubt abo—

JOSH What’s a man-eating flower?

EMPEROR Meat-eating flower. The flower eats all sorts of meats: rabbits, elephants, habbafabalapps, you name it.

HENRY Let’s get goin’ huh?

[HENRY and EMPEROR walk off screen. JOSH stands for a moment perplexed and slowly starts to follow, looking as if he doesn’t much like the idea. Cut to the three of them approaching a giant cartoonish flower surrounded by bones and flies.]

JOSH Uh, you know, this doesn’t seem like such a goo—

HENRY Isn’t that the most beautiful fucking flower you’ve ever seen?

EMPEROR I just love that shade of purple. Exquisite really.

JOSH Hey, look, man, I just don’t think I really wanna—

EMPEROR Ah, man-eating flower? [flower begins rustling] Yes, hello, I was wondering if you would care for an early dinner tonight? [tremendous rustling]

JOSH You know what? I’m gonna head back to the surface and flag down that—

HENRY Yeah, this guy over here. The one with the gold bar. [again, more rustling and slobbering]

JOSH No, really [starts backing away slowly, but in a split second flower snaps like a frog’s tongue and gobbles up JOSH]

EMPEROR Man, that guy was fuckin’ ugly.

HENRY What a maroon!

EMPEROR Yeah, you’ll get back to earth alright, Josh, you friggin’ moron. [Emperor and Henry walk off laughing heartily as the Emperor reaches into his robe and pulls out a pint of Thunderbird to take a swig. Fade out].

[Fade in. closeup of Josh’s face, eyes closed, cheek against concrete. Pan back to reveal Josh lying unconscious on concrete in front of large security gate. Slowly comes to and sits up. Lying next to him is gold bar. An amazed but jubilant look spreads over his face as he grabs the bar and leaps to his feet yelling “YES!! YES!!” Suddenly sirens start going off and lights start flashing. Josh, confused, looks around for a moment before what appear to be security guards descend upon him and wrestle him to the ground despite wails of protest from Josh. Fade out.]

[Fade in. Josh, looking haggard and roughed up, is sitting at a bare table in an interrogation room. Two very official looking gentleman (one black, one white) in FBI-type suits hover nearby.

BLACK FBI Okay, let’s go over this one more time. How did you get inside Fort Knox?

JOSH I told you what I know. First I didn’t think you’d believe me, but then I just decided to come clean. Maybe somebody framed me and drugged me I don’t know, but I was working at the Littlesburg nursing home when some crazy old fucker started blowing people away and then I flew on a butterfly to the moon and went inside where I found a gold-bearing hairy ass and then I was eaten by a man-eating flower.

WHITE FBI Last time you said it was a ‘meat-eating flower.’

JOSH Whatever! Who gives a fuck?! The fucking thing ate me and then I woke up in Fort Knox. Look I know it sounds crazy but either that actually happened or I’m fucking going crazy!! I’m just a fucking orderly at a nursing home, man!

BLACK FBI [looks at white FBI, closes his eyes and shakes his head] We’re gonna have to bring in the ‘glove.’

WHITE FBI [face turns dour as he silently mouths ‘Oh shit’]

JOSH [perplexed and frightened] W-What the fuck’s the glove? What the FUCK is the glove?!

[black FBI walks to door, opens it and calls for the glove, then closes the door. For a moment the three remain silent, somber. Door slowly starts to open. JOSH looks horrified. Then a beautiful woman with blonde hair (pulled back into a bun), horn-rimmed glasses, and a white overcoat walks in. She proceeds to stretch a latex glove over her right hand and walks toward Josh (off-screen). A few moments pass, then Josh lets out a violent wail. The two FBI-type guys wince and look away.]

[cut to scene of high-ranking government intelligence official (BURT) sitting behind large antique oak desk in ornate office, leafing through paperwork. Intercom buzzes and woman’s voice announces to Burt that Admiral Josephat has arrived. Burt tells woman on intercom to send the Admiral in. Admiral walks in.]

BURT Admiral, please [motions to chair in front of desk]

ADMIRAL [sits on chair] Sir, we have a security situation. Earlier today a young man was apprehended after having burgled a bar of gold at Fort Knox.

BURT What? Fascinating. [appears to be contemplating this feat]

ADMIRAL Ah, sir?

BURT Go on.

ADMIRAL The FBI is in the process of interrogating the perpetrator, but as of yet they have no idea how he penetrated the security system.

BURT Hmm?

ADMIRAL Apparently the perp insists that he flew to the moon on a giant butterfly and then acquired a gold bar from a—[begins looking at notes, but Burt interrupts violently].

BURT WHAT?! Did you say the man was on the moon?!

ADMIRAL Ah, yes [rather surprised]

BURT On the surface of the moon?

ADMIRAL [checks notes] Uh, no. The inside of the moon. But sir, is this—

BURT Dear mother of Okobhoji!!!

ADMIRAL [perplexed] Sir?

BURT [wide-eyed concern] Josephat, Don’t you see? The man was on the INSIDE OF THE MOON!

ADMIRAL [still baffled] I’m not sure I—

BURT You honestly don’t know? How the fuck did you get this far in intelligence? The inside of the moon is an absolute paradise. If word gets out about this—

ADMIRAL Sir, I don’t mean to interrupt, but the moon is, it’s just not—what I mean is ...

BURT Propaganda, you moron. Propaganda! Of course you think everything beyond our atmosphere is uninhabitable. That’s the whole reason for the propaganda. We can’t have everybody leaving earth for paradise inside of the moon. Hell, what do you think the wars of this century have been fought over?

ADMIRAL Uh [amazed and baffled] I really don’t—

BURT Of course you don’t. They were all cover ups. You think Hitler would have gotten into power on his own? Please! Whenever someone gets close to discovering the true nature of our universe we have to create diversions. Look at the Civil Rights movement, the Tuskegee experiments—

ADMIRAL The Tuskegee experiments? Black males infected with syphilis?

BURT That’s what we leaked to the press. The Tuskegee experiments were actually conducted to test competing theories of evolution, a debate that had been raging since the early 1800s. Hell, do you really think the Civil War was about slavery and tariffs?!

ADMIRAL [flabbergasted] Well, what was it then?

BURT It was about evolution. Are you dense, man? Competing theories of evolution. In the North it was goat fucking, in the south it was horse-cock sucking. Old Abe tried to outlaw the sucking of horse cocks, and frankly, the South just wanted nothing more to do with the United States.

ADMIRAL [incredulous] Sir, I really think that—

BURT Hold on. [looks in file near desk] Here it is. These are the original transcripts from a Confederate General taken before a battle in the South. [Begins reciting transcripts about Southern general’s battle plans]

ADMIRAL [glazed look comes over his face, dream-sequence wavy lines wash away Admiral’s face and bring into focus a Civil War general addressing some troops].

CW GENERAL Look men, I know we’ve taken a lot of casualties. But think of your families. Do you want your wife, your mother, your daughter to have to fuck a goat? NO! Not as long as we’ve got guns and ammo! I come from a long line of horse-cock suckers and the hell if I’m gonna abandon my heritage and the evolution of my family lines. I understand you’re down, men. I, too, long for the days when I can go home to the plantation and wrap my lips around a massive horse cock and suck until my face turns blue. But there’s a band of goatfuckers just over the ridge that would like nothing better than to deny our heritage and the evolution of our race. They’d love to laugh at you while you fuck a goat. We are not animals men, we’re not some primitive race that revels in the abnormal and disgusting practices of goat fucking. We’re horse-cock suckers and we’re proud of it! I’ll be damned if I let a bunch of goat-fucking perverts tell me that I can’t suck my horse’s cock when and where I want! Now grab your rifles and lets get those FUCKERS! [men rise up screaming and charge past general]

DIRECTOR [from offscreen] CUT! Okay that was great. Let’s take five and go again from the top. [pan back to reveal large film set]. Okay, Silas [actor playing CW General] I want to go over a few wrinkles in the script with you for a moment.

SILAS Not right now. I need to talk to Sam.

DIRECTOR Sam’s in NY. Look we’ve got a schedule.

SILAS Read my fucking contract asshole! I don’t take orders from you. [barges past director and off the set through a door into a parking lot, advances across parking lot to some stairs leading to another door. Walks in to sleek reception area, postmodern design, up to what appears to be receptionist and asks if Sam has returned from NY. Receptionist punches keyboard and waits a moment.]

RECEPTIONIST No, I’m afraid not Mr. Farciful.

SILAS Fine. I’ll talk to Ron. [walks past receptionist]

RECEPTIONIST Mr. Farciful! Mr. Hogwash is in a meeting!

SILAS [continues walking and opens door at end of office. Lights are dim, large oval table with about twelve suits sitting peering at large screen on wall. Another suit is talking about the images on the screen. Silas closes door, watches meeting. Zoom in past Silas to speaker.]

SPEAKER Our research has shown that the violent tendencies of both teenage and elderly males is caused not by the media, as previously assumed, but by sexual frustration. Our study of elderly male nursing home patients has revealed startling results, results which bode well for decreasing violent behavior in elderly males and increasing revenues of Forskack hair care products. If you’ll turn your attention to the screen now. In this excerpt you see an elderly male approaching an elderly female in a typical nursing home recreation hall. This particular male has been using a typical shampoo using ingredients from plant extracts. As you can see he reacts aggressively when confronted by the female’s rejection of his advances, attempting to lift a chair to strike her, but instead hurting his back, falling to the floor and breaking his hip. If there had been a reasonably light weight firearm available however, I believe we know from experience that the result would have been quite different. Now, in this scene we see an elderly gentleman approaching a female in the same rec room. Only this gent has been using Forskack hair care products. Notice the twinkle in the female’s eye and the amiable behavior of the elderly male. And now you can see that are leaving the rec room arm-in-arm, presumably about to engage in some form of sexual union. [clicks remote and screen goes blank, lights come up, pan back to reveal suits beaming approvingly.]

[Spinning newspaper front page covers scene and reveals headline] Forskack Products Put End to Nursing Home Violence!

[another spinning headline] Crime Rate Drops 90%! Forskack "Revolution" Changing Face of America!

[another spinning headline] World Peace Not Just a Pipe Dream Anymore!

[another spinning headline] U.S. Government Subsidizes Forskack Products for Goat Industry”

[another spinning headline] Forskack, World Peace, and Goat Fucking! Who’d a thunk it!”

[Cut to scene of suburban neighborhood, lawns filled with men and women fucking goats with wool shampooed into lather].