from the tentatively entitled: “house of the yellow lichen” (to be a lovecraftian horror by way of burroughs/thompson in the vein of philip k. dick)
Vignette I: and so socrates said, “well make that a double”
Consider it screwed
you know though, it’s probably best not to take most of what i say without a dose of salt (and maybe a tablespoon of activated charcoal if you have any about). i don’t know what it is i’ve got but i’m pretty certain by now it’s contagious and it may very well spread as easily through thought as any other vector. orgonian overdose? mk-ultra? electromagnetic pollution? satellite array transmitted assassination networks (SATAN, for short), i dunno what it is these days but lately it’s like a constant headache, fog or else a mania. Feel my brain all tingly…I wonder if listening to black metal while generating new neurons will have any repercussions?
Better than my old buddy “big red’s” idea though surely: Huff raid, he said, it only kills the weak braincells
oh well, at least i’ve been recording/documenting all i’ve seen and thought i saw. all the connections i mined or imagined. I’m a goof, sure but sometimes I’m pretty sure that maybe deep down I could be great undifferentiated connective tissue, too…
i will never forget the first story i was told when i finally made it to the yellow house:
It was up here in Northern Cali, maybe Ukiah but I think probably more like Garberville, I knew a guy who would crystalize Raid by spraying it on an electrified screen. He would scrape it off and bag it up and sell it as speed. Apparently, the pyrethrins short circuit your nerves and create an amphetamine like sensation…as they DIE.
Well that’s a nifty recipe for a hot shot. I exhaled, remembering the ridiculous trek following Nathan (not the Nathan I had come to McKinleyville, home of the largest totem pole in North America to see, but it seemed portentous at the time, so I followed) that ended with me in the middle of nowhere, dressed in leather fringe and tight, paint stained purple denim, twisted ankle throbbing in Burbank cast off mock-moccasins). That needs to go into a story though, I thought to myself.
True story. He said. I watched him do it.
Whoof… I barked, just under my breath
Yeh…it was brutal. His old lady had a smack habit. Dope don’t buy itself. Caveat emptor..
Yikes, cuz what fun is fucking a girl to death when you could see her die so much more slowly by letting her boyfriend fuck HIM to death and let her live with THAT debt
Hey, you roll the dice, you takes your chances…
i need to get on with it though, at least draw together the important parts, let you make of it what you will. something about a psychedelic sentient lichen and that place they called the house near hootenannie where
the floor rotting in was nothing to the mist of must that gently constricted and tickled the inner soft fleshy palate of throat flesh
then there was
the society of seekers scene, only known as the society of seekers to hangers-on, “prospects” and the scant group of researchers who seem themselves nearly as cultish and obsessed. society members (most of whom manage to evade any public note apart from basic census data)
on your role, complete in every detail, the rollercoasterdips and dives
i’m getting off track again though, aren’t i. this always happened. the weird, wired way my brain worked, the way i thought in a sort of web, wrought with recursive loops. sometimes i drop the golden thread entirely, at that point i’m done for.
like, have you ever woke up, either from anesthesia, being knocked in the head hard enough to cause a concussion or the wrong combination of compounds? that first second, the sort of ether huffing, laughing gas “wah wah” that you get from good model glue, the warmth in the pit of your cheeks and then the brightness and a sense of overhwelming “okayness” followed by a swift and sharp panic, of “where am i, what just happened, hasn’t this happened before, who am i?”
TO BE CONTINUED (perhaps)