That Big Black Bird i Saw Last Night

The Bird

The bird sitting on the yellow gravel shoulder was pretty much a bird like any other. Two wings, a beak, no bladder, and all that shit. It though thoughts that other birds think, which were pretty inconsequential really.

It was pretty much just a black fucking bird, with one little extra errand to run.

But that didn’t matter, not at the moment. This crow had been the first to find the fresh kill it was feeding upon. A raccoon, who had gotten its back crushed by a station wagon. The raccoon had run a hundred mad circles, dragging its useless hindquarters, and leaving a trail of blood, shit and viscera behind it. Then it died – fighting ‘til its final breath. Not due to some valiant effort, but because it knew no other way. Imagined no peace wich might come after, fathomed no eternal rest, just died.

And this crow had been the first on the scene. Taking first the eyes of the carcass, not because it found them rewarding or a delicacy in any way, simply because they were easily accessible. This crow then set to work on the soft belly, keeping an eye on the horizon for more of its own kind.

It found neither pleasure nor repulsion in its work, it simply obeyed a drive and did what was needed to keep on living.

It knew neither past, yesterday had failed to imprint during a dreamless sleep, nor tomorrow, it had no way of piecing together the present to estimate the future.

When more of its kind did come, it did not feel comradery, did not feel jealous over the morsels it was denied, simply squawked, and shuffled to make room.

And when a drive deeper and stranger than hunger drew it away from the kill, it didn’t question, didn’t ponder, just lifted its great black wings and flew.

The Boy

When he chose his journal he did so with great care. Something dark, ordinary cover, that was a must. Something with blank pages so that he could sketch when he needed to , and so that he could fit as much, or as little, as he wanted on every page. Something thick, but not insurmountably so. The end was in site, and tyme is oh so finite.

Eventually he found exactly what he needed. He took it home, and up to his room where he wrote these words in fresh red blood, using his grandfathers fountain pen and a scalpel swiped from the biology lab.

“when this ends, so will i” on the inside cover

The Hunger

The crow had flown for 8 days and seven nights, neither eating nor drinking. It was not fully aware of the change coming over it. The transition was too slow, and the hunger too great to think about anything else.

But it had stopped to think. It would have wondered how it knew that it was flying northwest, into the heart of the Bible Belt, would have wondered how it gained the ability to wonder. But all it could think about was the hunger that normal carion could not sate.

Somethingj ust over the horizon drew it on, something just around the bend. It could feel the proximity, like when you’ve been away from the place where you grew up for a really long tyme, and on your way back, when the terrain becomes just familiar enough to give you butterflies in your stomach.

It was that close.

The crow had already passed through the worst of the storms, and it now flew through a cold autumnal drizzle.

Skimming above trees that were mostly barren and black earth marred occasionally by the first traces of the coming winter.

In a blur beneath, the trees stretched like black skeletal fingers pushing up from a dirty white burial shroud, upwards towards the crow as if grasping for it, but falling just short tyme after tyme.

Whatever it was that pulled the bird was old. A force older than the seasons, older than man’s religion, older even than the cold that invaded its feathers and sink into its claes until its very hollow bones ached.

But finally its goal was in sight. A group of four gravestones stood steady in the mist.

Alone, like four mountains on a plain of ploughed earth. It was on the newest of these four stones that the crow landed, shuffled to the side, gave one confused cry, and waited for instinct to move it further.

Her

“I know what they thought. It was stamped on their faces, as plain and as grotesque as the weathered lines of bark that form the screaming faces on the forest trees.

They labeled me, as easily and as readily as you’d label a tuperware container, old turkey, tuna sandwich, egg salad, heart of lamb, still born calf, suicidal, manic depressive, bipolar….

And once they had their labels they had no reason to know me. They put me on the shelf with their other forgotten relics. Shoes that fit too well and now lie in cardboard coffins. Photos taken to replace memories, and then forgotten.

That’s what I am i guess, the photo taken to replace reality and then lost and forgotten anyway.

I’m just thankful that at least one person took the tyme to know me. God, I don’t know how I would have made it this far without him.

He listened, and I believe – I know – that Johnny loved me, and I know that he believed me. I wonder what this will do to him… I wonder what the coming days will turn him in to…

Maybe he’ll know, maybe he’ll figure everything out. Johnny believes in Him after all. And no one else does, not my counselor, not my ‘doctor’, not my parents, not my Father. I’ve been fighting this battle with Him for so long now, and He’s winning. I can’t keep pushing Him out. He’s so cold, and so strong, and his pupils spin like mad black whirlpools when he comes.

Maybe I can fight him off a little longer, and maybe it’ll be enough to find His name.

useless update

This is a more or less useless update, as well as a cross-post. OUCH!

But I wanted to put up the video of the troubador that Iv'e seen a few times on state street. The qaulity isn't that good, i took it with my digital camera, but I think the sound is okay.

I find this guy very interesting, and I hope he sticks around Madison for a while. He seems to fit well on state street.

Fwds are stupid

Forwards are stupid, and they are normally the bane of my existence. But every now and then one comes along that makes me smile a little. not much, but sometimes a little.... You know, that 3 bean burrito and 4 coronas into the evening smile...

Still, I can't bring my self to email them back out.

But here, in this blog, I can post all things pointless.
So here is a Fwd I received that made me grin like a fat man with mexican food gas...

Are you tired of those sissy "friendship" poems that always sound good, but never actually come close to reality?
Well, here is a series of promises that actually speak of true friendship.
You will see no cutesy little smiley faces on this card- just the stone cold truth of our great friendship.

1. When you are sad -- I will help you get drunk and plot revenge against the sorry bastard who made you sad.
2. When you are blue -- I will try to dislodge whatever is choking you.
3. When you smile -- I will know you finally got laid.
4. When you are scared -- I will rag on you about it every chance I get.
5. When you are worried -- I will tell you horrible stories about how much worse it could be until you quit whining.
6. When you are confused -- I will use little words.
7. When you are sick -- Stay the hell away fr om me until you are well again. I don't want whatever you have.
8. When you fall -- I will point and laugh at your clumsy ass.
9. This is my oath..... I pledge it to the end.

the breeze last night

(I can't explain the Johnny thing. If you go here maybe it will make sense. Probably not though)

Breeze

Last night
Johnny was a breeze
hiding all day
while the sun pushed him flat
into the grass
so that he could barely snake
between those green bending blades
gravity's nemesis
he urged them to sway

As the sun moved on
to some western place
Johnny rose
turning slightly
in the lengthening shade
brushing beneath
the apple tree leaves
and starting out
across the lawn

flowing headlong
into the warm red brick
and cooling it some
as he scratched his back
on the red stone

slipping across the cracked
pavement
where
like a jewel
the green moss etched the drive

sauntered onto
the blue porch
through cracked wooden rails
and neglected ferns

now that the day
had left the chipped blue paint
(left over from the kitchen)
letting it gleam again
in the street lights

Johnny curled around
a cigarettes glow
gathering a moments warmth
before twisting smoke
into some reminiscent spectre
(a tiny yearning hand)
and spinning it up
into summers moon

another night on state street

Why do people blog?
I've been sort of re-examining my reasons for the infrequent and relatively pointless posts that I put on here.

Am I entertaining people.... um.... not if the number of people who read this blog is any indication.

Here's a shout out to all 5 of ya ;-)

To keep in touch? Nah, I'd just call you up or send you an email if that was my goal.

I think maybe it's an outgrowth of whatever it is that makes people avid journal keepers.

And that I can understand, even if I can't articulate it. I've kept a journal pretty much my entire life. I don't plan on passing it along, I don't share it, and I've never given much more than a passing thought to what will happen to my journals after I'm gone. I write with the notion that they will never be read by anyone other than myself.

Ah, but there's the rub. I know people, even if it's only a few people, will read things that I put online. And I know these things will be there forever... or until that EMP pulse they talked about in Dark Angel....

*** you're no Lara Croft Jessica Alba! you're no Lara Croft***

So blogging is sort of like a journal, that you leave laying out on the table...
open...
during a dinner party....

But that's not why I'm sitting at this lap top typing tonight. That was a passing thought. I was pulling together my memories form last night and thought "why am I doing this again?" and got off on a tangent.

But in the end, I do it because sitting here, sipping my beer, listening to the cicadas and the crickets compete in the cooling summer evening, it's what makes me happy.

Is what I'm about to write a little different than what I'd write down in my journal, knowing no one else would ever read it?

Yes, and that's bad, and not how a person is supposed to write. But if you can live with it, so can I.

Yesterday (Friday) was a damn beautiful day in the city of Madison. The heat wave has broken, and the temperatures are what summer should be. Crawling slowing into the 80s in the morning, maybe flirting with 90 in the early afternoon, and then sliding back down into a cool comfortable evening.

Not the god-forsaken heat wave we endured for over a week. When sitting in the shade hurt. Ashley, in her 10 year old wisdom, told her daycare lady that it's probably because of global warming. Her daycare lady snapped back "no it's not. it's because of polution"

Ashley, in another display of wisdom, one that I think I could learn a lesson from. Didn't argue, even though she disagreed.

We over slept. The cool morning and the later sunrise tricked us into staying in bed too long. So I didn't get to ride my bike in. Instead Sarah and I rode in together.

We are out of bananas, and broke. Seriously broke. Like "we shouldn't buy bananas if we want to go out tonight" broke.

So as I was dawdling (i'm not even sure what that is, but I've been told that I do it frequently) around the house I made up a song to mark my longing for a banana.

"I wish I had a banana, oh I wish I had a banana
If I had a banana life would be complete
I wish I had a banana, oh I wish I had a banana
If I had a banana I'd never know defeat"

"That's not what I thought you were going to say" Sarah noted

"Really? What did you think I was going to say?"

"I thought you'd say 'If i had a banana I'd stick it up my seat'." Sarah is surly in the morning.

"Why in the name of pete would I say that?"

"Because asses and bananas go together like ice cream and cake."

I think that was her way of trying to tell me to quit dawdling and get ready for work already.
We had lunch together. I don't rememeber much of the rest of the day. other than that i didn't feel like working. We found a nice little park and ate our salads on a bench.

Sarah was a little distracted. Due, I think, to the fact that she hadn't eaten anything all day, but had consumed an admirable amount of coffee.

The day passes. Though not with any haste about it.

I picked Sarah up at 3:00, and we slowly got ready for the evening. Ashley was still at the grandparents (she ended up staying a third night even. She's having a good time down there).

I played some video games and we slowly started getting ready. Appearantly... though i didn't see evidence of it, I was dawdling again.

We raid the piggy bank, or in this case it's an A&W Root Beer jug, and head out.

The Harmony Bar:
2201 Atwood Ave.
Madison
608-249-4333
Hours: 11 am-11:45 pm Mon.-Fri., 11 am-8:45 pm Sat. & Sun.
Location: Near East



We've heard about it, but never tried it. There is construction on the side road, so we almost miss it. We park in back, and come in from the side.... like the gangsta's that we are. It's a bit of a dive bar. With obvious regulars that look up through their beards and mugs at us when we come in. We go through the bar to the dining area, take seat and peruse the menu. The pizza's look amazing. With combinations that I didn't even think were possible.

Walknut. on a pizza. for crissakes there's walnut on a pizza! now that is genious. I should note that they had the largest vegetarian selection that I've yet seen in a restuarant. Over half a page of non-meat possibilities. Me.... I like meat.

Sorry cute animals that had to die so that i could eat a burger... but i like meat.

We got cheesburgers. And sweet frak those were good cheeseburgers. 5.00 a piece, but they were the kind that you had to strain to get your mouth around, and dripped when you bit into them. mmmmmmmmm

Oh, and there was a disco ball on the ceiling. I'm pretty sure they have music there often, but not on the night we were there. And I dont' know what kind. Could be country, could be jazz... I don't kow. Should the disco ball have tipped me off one way or the other?

Then to The Candy Shop
1947 Winnebago St
Madison
(608) 244-0744

It's this little place owned, and as far as i've seen, staffed by one lady. The place has all those candies that you thought they didn't make anymore. Dots (the ones on a roll of paper) slow pokes, charleston chews, squirell nut zippers, gummy fruit slices, licorice pipes (red and black), now and laters, atomic fireballs, lemonheads (okay, you still see those around) as well as shaved ice and specialty chocolates from wisconsin chocolatiers.

yes, chocolatier is a real word... i had to look it up though. It's been one of our favorite places to go afterwards if we eat in that neighborhood.

Three or our bucks and you can blissfully slip into a sugar coma in minutes. If you do go, I HIGHLY recommend this littel dark chocolate and peanut butter thing. Freakin' awesome.

State Street:
Parked, walked around a bit. The musicians were out. There was Cat-Fish Stevens (the stee; guitar and cowboy hat guy) and the other steel guitar guy (the one with taps on his shoes), a guy and girl singing old protest songs along with a guitar (her voice was amazing, and she was tiny, but sh kept cracking up when she forgot the words), and the guy who-I -can't-think-of-a-catchy-name-for. He plays either flute or sax, and he always find the places with amazing acoustics. He was playing "The Girl From Ipanema" on his flute, tucked in the shade of the concrete book store on campus, when we walked by.

And new street musician. An honest to goodness troubadour. Or maybe there's a better title, but I'm calling him a troubadour. He wore a wide brimmed beat up hat that was pulled low over his eyes. His beard was grey and his clothes were travel worn. He had a guitar. On his back was a bass drum and a series of cymbols and chimes hooked up to a pedal on his leg. An alien looking contraption held a kazoo, harmonica and pan flute within reach of his mouth.

I didn't get a picture of him, but I managed to get this little audio clip.



We killed a couple hours at the Fair Trade Coffee house. We took turns reading the isthmus and onion. I stumbled upon the startling realization that i don't like iced coffee.

I had to choose. A large iced coffee at $2.00, or some mocha chill blended esspresso drink at $5.50. I did some quick math in my head, and decided that the iced coffee would provide my sluggish brain with more caffeine (C8H10N4O2) per dollar. But there's a reason that you drink hot coffee and throw it out once it's cold. Lesson learned.... move on already.

The Union. Mecca of the state street experience. I could never do it justice. If you've talked to me for 5 minutes you know I'm obsessed with that damn place. There was music, though I dont' know the band, and they weren't great. But it didn't matter. The cool breeze was blowing in off the lake, there were people talking and drinking and smoking cloves and cigars. Dressed nicely, but not prowling. There was a surreal night time energy seething through the place, skimming out over the water like mist and turning the entire night into a movie set.

I walked out onto one of the piers while Sarah sat and people watched and took a few pictures.





We hung around there until... oh I don't know, 9:30. Then got a call that the karaoke event was going down on the other side of town. The karaoke even was one of the central events for the evening. The reason for making sure we had the night free. We had been graciously invited to attend the retiring of Dexter's White Rabbit. An even that would send ripples through the karaoke community.

Still, we almost didn't go. We almost stayed at the union, with the band we didn't know, just the two of us, on a cement retaining wall near the water.

The rest of the evening is someone else's story more than mine. It was fun, and I'm glad we were there for it. I've formed volumes of theories and hypothesis on karaoke as a result. Where as I had always assumed that there was only one breed of karaok'ster, I have since witnessed a second, more elusive, but perhaps more rewarding, species.

***fighting the temptation o go into it... to tell the story about the only other time i've been to a karaoke "thing" and how truly, truly terrible it was. fight it christopher, fight it....****

Instead, i wil let the following speak for me. I will only add that this (see below) is the karaoke that I could endorse.

Claim vs Fact

Found this interesting little web site called Claim vs Fact


Try Speakers = Sean Hannity for some good ones.

A stupid link

stupid link, but entertaining anyway...