Passages — Chapter 1

Procession into the unknown...Drinking on grave misteps...Memory Lane Maze...Distruptions and disturbances...Beef with the po-po's

He feels like writing though doesn't know where to start. As a writer this perplexes him. He knows KNOWS he wants to write. Wants to is so similar to desire, but WANTS is not desire. Wanting is like a crooked lampshade, a broken pen compared to the dark room and unused keyboard of desire. Speakers slammed, friendships tarnished, new friendships flourish and old family try to reunite feebly, unconquered techniques still flashing by - these things he wants to write but does not know how to connect (those dots-.-.-.). They will be on paper as is. They will not be finished ideas until he finishes writing them and then, even THEN, they will be muddy sand on the floor of the ocean...the thoughts are too nebulous and the vaporous gas has dissolved from the bubbling spring into the current of time.

Yet, YET, harnessing these thoughts for him is crucial and a crime against THESE thoughts at the same time. Concurrently, he's a freedom fighter and prison warden. When experiences are created in the light of crooked lampshades and crowded flickering sidewalks a writer cannot simply stitch the plot together and expect its structure to develop eloquently, perfectly - it just doesn't happen.

Too much confusion, too many experiences, too many ironies and paradoxes create excitement and the confusion still remains. Perhaps he wants to write to examine these intricacies - perhaps to decipher and lay them out in coherent symbols someone else may interpret as truth, reality, obfuscated facts clearly illustrated. But, that would not seem right and there isn't enough time to explain why.

So far this writing about writing hasn't done much good in creating the beginning and these passages are all dead ends to somewhere.

As a matter of fact, the writer grew up on a dead end street - it was called Good Luck Street, although now changed to Goodluck Street and became a dead end again too.

Damp floors from spilled beer, foggy corridors filled with strangers and cigarette smoke, crumb and ring stains on the table, empty bowls filled with resin, empty lighters in a box that won't light incense, ripped posters on the wall, offset tapestries on couches, burns in the carpet, streaks on vinyl floors, splatter on the stove top, wet bars, broken stools, knolls of grass so slushy they suck shoes off your feet, fucking in snow drifts through 4 layers of waterproof gear, ear piercing bass from speakers on every wall of every floor, road trips destined for white knuckled slams into guardrails, empty conversation around full vodka bottles, vomit and sweat all over the place, pint glasses tipped and spilled, muddy bare footprints, wet clothes, dirty bed sheets, broken bongs, pieces of foil crispy and brown, snapped CD cases engulfed with white residue, stockpiles of trash and bags of beercans, broken guitars, buzzing amps, flickering tv's, girls those beautiful baby dolls with flaky make up, guys with tight shirts and veiny muscles, sly pointless arguments, serious laughter, strict drug regiments, empty Camel packs, ripped Trojan wrappers, blurry videos, the list goes on...

He had to go, although unwillingly, throw clothes in the laundry machine and by the time he came back the trainwreck had already happened. A symbolic cymbal crash thoughtfully collided with the inside wall of his skull - hemoragging anger, hate, laughter. The warden has a prison riot on his hands and the wry smile appears on his face and the smoldering residue of meaning maybe IS contained though ultimately dust, red ashes and these words are...

...broken Carona bottles on ceramic kitchen tiles, spit, sweat, hair gel, giz and alochol and all in the ice cold jacuzzi and cigarette butts float on the surface, incoherrent text messages from 4am, homeless men living on the street under light blue bed sheets (hey watch it!), clubs full of tease dancers and the douchie assholes who battle for them, friendly strip dancers, coy black jack dealers, lucky purses, college dorm coutches, getting lucky on them, suffocating in the subway heat, box wine in winter green park, blunts and cops on the hill, ecstacy fueled binges going into sunrise, and then drawing it with pastels with the help of shrooms, acid, hash and grass, listening to music on porches with the glow of stoges enhancing the mood, mind bending confabulation about synchrocities we can't touch and only know by feel, duplicitious questions in neon lounges over tequila shots, passing out in couches, awakining to bouncers flashing lights in your eyes, puking into closet utility sinks, getting high in dorm bathrooms and student center rooftops, drum circles, getting hassled by cops at them, getting pulled over later that night by the same cops, are you any closer to getting the picture?

spectacular...but, not technicolor -- maybe more like monochrome.

sitting rather stooping at venkat's house after smoking a fat L and downing some beers, a discussion about music started and calling it a heated exchange would be considered more suitable and Stan thinks it's not really worth thinking about so he doesnt listen in. But Paul and Chris think its worth listening to so too they want to throw their opinions in. While all this happens Stan plays on an accoustic guitar, going through his usual reportoire of songs he wrote while staring through the floor into presumably China or perhaps the Phillipines if the angle is right.

So anyway there everyone was toasty and ear to ear and Paul whose propensity to weigh his opinion in on everything was about to take the stump but he wouldnever get to it because the author of these passages got a call from a local phone number he didnt recognize. Hesiitantly, he picked up and waited to see what the person, if it really was a person, on the other end would do.

...as time stood still for those brief seconds, each its own lifetime recaptured and lost again, those moments wait for spotlights...

"...Hello? Hey its Vik. Hello?" It was Vik. "Cal you there?"

"Yo! Whats happening, man?" said the author.

"Well, actually a lot...I'm in jail."

Just as Paul was about to continue with what he was going to say about the group AIR —

"What?! Why are you in jail?" and everyone locked their attention on the author.