I was at work, as I often am at 4 in the morning, enjoying, as I do, the constant flow of wasted human potentiality flow ever onward toward parts unknown (and untreated for STDs) outside the tall windows onto Ellis Street. It's an entertaining, occasionally harrowing, and always train-wreck interesting past time. This night it was cold, as it has been, and it was lively. Scuffles among the itinerant drug addict community are common enough, ranging from a minor shoving match over a personal space infraction, to a savaging-with-baseball-bat over a mighty 4 dollar debt (payable at this point only in blood, obviously. Although how much blood 4 dollars will buy you is probably not an advisable question to put to medical professionals, as you will likely be explaining your query to the police). This night hadn't seen much in the way of extraordinary activity, but the 4am hour begins the crawl across the earth of those desperate for their shackle of choice. Prime time, as it were. As I watched across the road, two such worthies did begin a row, and struggle they did mightily. For a given value of mightily. They are crackheads after all, and you can't expect too much. But struggle they did, madly grasping at eachother, throwing the wide and impotent punches common to these engagements, generally trying to make a good showing although I guarantee no one in Valhalla took notice of their battle. From a ways down the street, on the edge of hearing, the distinct noise of low thumping bass could be heard. As the vehicle approached, and it's always safe to assume that this kind of noise comes out of a vehicle, the air outside was filled with the heavy, repetitive rhythm of the hottest club jam. The kind of thing that ill-clad men and women love to get drunk and grind to. And loud. This had a profoundly amazing affect on the combatants on the sidewalk. Their fight ceased, stopped dead with both men letting go of the tattered and matted jacket of the other. They began, dear reader, to dance. For a given value of dance. They both jerked in time to the song, pumping their arms and flailing their legs in a movement that can only really be articulated by limbs atrophied by the rigors of crack addiction. And it was amazing. I watched in rapt engagement. The red light turned green, the vehicle-cum-DJ sped off down the lane, the two men halted their ill-advised gyrations and locked once again in semi-mortal combat. All in all, it was a stupefying display of human interaction. For a given value of human. Amazing.
Friday, January 22, 2010
From out hoary vaults beyond the veil of time to the black gulfs of primordial chaos. At least that's what your mom said.
As usual, at least as has been usual but will no longer be after I clack on this "publish post" button, I haven't updated this thing in a long time. Thunder rattles through the sky and lightning cracks the welkin. It's 7 am and I haven't slept for a while. Recently, my life has been turned if not upside down, then at least in some similarly awkward position. Many things change, and many things stay the same. A quick memorandum on the occurrences of the past few months; painting, working, drawing, sleeping, meeting a french girl, watching crackheads, not writing, not practicing, not driving, and losing a battle against the DMV (with the 5th being the best and the 8th being the worst). Now that that's out of the way, here's a story-
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Hallowe'en blarg post
I figure I should update this thing. It's been over a month. I'm sitting behind a desk, watching the detritus of 2am filter across the world. I've been especially idle of late, my perpetuity sagging heavily across my back like the legendary stone of Sisyphus. That's a little grand maybe. Living in a new place distracts me in a good way I suppose. Having work does, for certain. But as comfort and familiarity set it, so do the old ghosts begin to stir. New phantoms and old. At least I'm not considering suicide anymore.
It's an impossible thing to relate; building up a structure so high and finding out you've built the wrong thing. You can still live in it, for a given value of living, but you'll always know, for your ignorance or arrogance, that you'd lost your future from the outset. If you hadn't built it so well you could start over. But those walls are strong and that foundation is thick, and all the lessons in construction came from the thing anyway. Hindsight is a motherfucker. So you live, or try, in that tower by yourself, sitting outside in the sleet because you can't bear the solace of a roof built in error. Maybe you are punishing yourself, but more likely you are just a coward. Maybe it's time to go back inside. You're by yourself either way, but at least in there you can stay dry.
Anyway, here's a drawing.
When I can't get my hands or brains to move the way I want them to, I always draw something mechanical. It doesn't help, but it sometimes works.
It's an impossible thing to relate; building up a structure so high and finding out you've built the wrong thing. You can still live in it, for a given value of living, but you'll always know, for your ignorance or arrogance, that you'd lost your future from the outset. If you hadn't built it so well you could start over. But those walls are strong and that foundation is thick, and all the lessons in construction came from the thing anyway. Hindsight is a motherfucker. So you live, or try, in that tower by yourself, sitting outside in the sleet because you can't bear the solace of a roof built in error. Maybe you are punishing yourself, but more likely you are just a coward. Maybe it's time to go back inside. You're by yourself either way, but at least in there you can stay dry.
Anyway, here's a drawing.
When I can't get my hands or brains to move the way I want them to, I always draw something mechanical. It doesn't help, but it sometimes works.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
That time has come at last
It's been quite a while since I last updated this thing. There hasn't been some dearth of eligible content really, but more an overall lack of my ability to care. But, as the tides are risen and felled by the position of the moon, the old stirring to write something down boils up again, like a badly digested sandwich. Unfortunately for you, dear reader, while the will is there the subject is not, so you are subject to this aimless prattle. You'd probably be best advised to stop reading now.
One of the unrelenting and time-wasting pursuits I've directed my energies toward is drawing crap like this-
Re-drawing, I should say. For printing's sake. I'm hoping to get a bunch of these, and those like them printed off on fancy paper, to eventually be sold to those of discriminating taste and distinction. Of the recent batch, this one I like the most. Largely because of his cravat, which is classy as all hell. More are on the way, as well as an animatic featuring the rage and hubris of a unicorn sea captain attempting to reap his revenge against a fire breathing narwhal (with apologies to Herman Melville). My wretched inertia is the only thing keeping these things from developing more rapidly. If I'm able to conquer that, those who enjoy this type of thing can rejoice. Here's a drawing of the captain-
And his fate-
Time will tell, as it always does. And in that between now and then I will continue to drown in my perpetuity, as is my wont, waiting for someone to come along who can drive a wedge in this endless hermetical rut I've etched for myself. Won't happen, but it's always nice to dream.
One of the unrelenting and time-wasting pursuits I've directed my energies toward is drawing crap like this-
Re-drawing, I should say. For printing's sake. I'm hoping to get a bunch of these, and those like them printed off on fancy paper, to eventually be sold to those of discriminating taste and distinction. Of the recent batch, this one I like the most. Largely because of his cravat, which is classy as all hell. More are on the way, as well as an animatic featuring the rage and hubris of a unicorn sea captain attempting to reap his revenge against a fire breathing narwhal (with apologies to Herman Melville). My wretched inertia is the only thing keeping these things from developing more rapidly. If I'm able to conquer that, those who enjoy this type of thing can rejoice. Here's a drawing of the captain-
And his fate-
Time will tell, as it always does. And in that between now and then I will continue to drown in my perpetuity, as is my wont, waiting for someone to come along who can drive a wedge in this endless hermetical rut I've etched for myself. Won't happen, but it's always nice to dream.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
what has become
Recent history has seen quite a few new scribblings from me. I've been drawing at a constant clip, and am finally getting trees I like to look at. This is going to be the penultimate part of a series of drawings that depict a unicorn being killed by a centaur. At least I think a centaur. Something awesome at least. Really it's just an excuse to draw a shitload more trees. And yet another excuse to draw a terrified unicorn getting killed.
In other news I'm becoming comfortable enough in this city to feel that familiar gut punch of isolation again. Hello old friend.
In other news I'm becoming comfortable enough in this city to feel that familiar gut punch of isolation again. Hello old friend.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
STREET FIGHT, MAN!! G- SEVOWWWWN!!!
It's very difficult, I am finding right now, to write about a melee. A proper melee, that is. The rare and tentative and insidious calm of 2am on Tenderloin streets was shattered a few minutes ago. The first thing I could hear from my position behind this desk was a woman, screaming plaintively at someone not to get involved in something. As her cries grew more urgent, it became clear to me that whatever was going on wasn't minor, and it wasn't cooling off. I decided to take a step outside and see what all the commotion was about.
Across the intersection, some kind of disagreement had reached the point of one man frantically pulling his shirt off. With the spectators on the sidewalk and the normal drift of human detritus through the neighborhood, exactly who was in disagreement was unclear. But as the ranks of the shirtless grew it was obvious that it was no small problem. Or rather, it was no problem that a whole lot of people weren't willing to tear off their shirts about and brawl in the streets. I am generally under the impression that this requires little provocation for a lot of people, so there is no telling.
In any case, clothing peppered the ground and the two sides lunged. They took to the intersection like dogs, howling at eachother in unintelligible screams of rage, communicating the basest kind of intent. As they clashed, more than ten people in total, the mad scramble dissolved into confusion. Bodies sprawled on asphalt, fists and legs gangled through the crowd occasionally striking some manner of target. In the most artless and amateur display of violence I've ever seen in my life (which is saying quite a bit) these two groups flailed and stumbled and rolled across the road. As it reached fever pitch, in this context meaning the most number of people falling over simultaneously during their ill-attempted attacks, I noticed several bizarre things about the fracas. Two people standing side by side, kicking a man kneeling on the ground suddenly realizing who they are standing next to begin to strike futilely at eachother, faces twisted in sudden twin rictus of furious realization. Another combatant somehow produced a crude cudgel; some bend and uneven lump of softwood. I can only assume that the hoary and ancient god of miserably poor fighters grants this to his chosen champion in any given brawl of this nature. In any case, his attempts to bludgeon anything with it besides the unsuspecting air around him and at one point his own knee met with failure, and he quickly limped away. At points, portions of the violence would relent into a brief yelling match and quickly rekindle again and the sad display of attempted battery would continue. As the fray shifted down the road toward me, standing in the doorway to the hostel, several of these men ran toward the entry, maybe hoping to get inside and away from the shameful lack of brutality they'd brought on themselves. I fixed myself to the spot, dropped my arms and prepared to repel the ineptly invading force, but at the last minute they decided against whatever bizarre course of action they had set on. Another small faction within the larger debacle seemed to be at odds with itself, with members asking eachother such questions as, "What am I supposed to say?!" and "How are you going to handle that?!?" in response to some events I assume were unknowable to the outside observer. It was a confusing time on the streets of San Francisco, clearly.
The degree of furiously violent intent was matched only by the gross and catastrophic inability of the combatants involved. As the maelstrom of ineptitude churned around the street I found myself actually becoming frustrated. When a group of people descend on one another with such unshielded aggression, you'd expect at least someone to reap that whirlwind. But as I watched this, it appeared as the proverbial sound and fury, signifying nothing. None of these bastards was any worse for the wear, and as the festivities wound to an impotent close all I could do was laugh. My laughter attracted the attention of a crackhead on the sidewalk next to me, who responded with a jovial stream of gibberish and a resonant chortle of approval. I think I made out the words "wild" and "geeyone" but I'm not sure what that last one meant. I suppose every tragic cataclysm is incomplete without a touch of the gnostic.
This began around 2:10 am. The entire humiliating attempt at violence lasted for maybe 10 minutes. As the sirens wailed in the distance and the last holdouts of hopeful fighters stopped trying to injure eachother and scattered back into the woodwork, I went back inside. Five patrol cars screeched to a halt in the intersection and the officers emerged ready for action, shotguns in hand, but there was none to be had. At the end of the day, more damage was caused to hands and elbows hitting concrete than anything else. The stick wielding gladiator will probably have a sore knee tomorrow. I honestly hope everyone involved is ashamed of themselves, because that shit was just plain pathetic.
ps- the title to this post is a reference to a movie. Anyone guessing which movie this is gets accolades.
Across the intersection, some kind of disagreement had reached the point of one man frantically pulling his shirt off. With the spectators on the sidewalk and the normal drift of human detritus through the neighborhood, exactly who was in disagreement was unclear. But as the ranks of the shirtless grew it was obvious that it was no small problem. Or rather, it was no problem that a whole lot of people weren't willing to tear off their shirts about and brawl in the streets. I am generally under the impression that this requires little provocation for a lot of people, so there is no telling.
In any case, clothing peppered the ground and the two sides lunged. They took to the intersection like dogs, howling at eachother in unintelligible screams of rage, communicating the basest kind of intent. As they clashed, more than ten people in total, the mad scramble dissolved into confusion. Bodies sprawled on asphalt, fists and legs gangled through the crowd occasionally striking some manner of target. In the most artless and amateur display of violence I've ever seen in my life (which is saying quite a bit) these two groups flailed and stumbled and rolled across the road. As it reached fever pitch, in this context meaning the most number of people falling over simultaneously during their ill-attempted attacks, I noticed several bizarre things about the fracas. Two people standing side by side, kicking a man kneeling on the ground suddenly realizing who they are standing next to begin to strike futilely at eachother, faces twisted in sudden twin rictus of furious realization. Another combatant somehow produced a crude cudgel; some bend and uneven lump of softwood. I can only assume that the hoary and ancient god of miserably poor fighters grants this to his chosen champion in any given brawl of this nature. In any case, his attempts to bludgeon anything with it besides the unsuspecting air around him and at one point his own knee met with failure, and he quickly limped away. At points, portions of the violence would relent into a brief yelling match and quickly rekindle again and the sad display of attempted battery would continue. As the fray shifted down the road toward me, standing in the doorway to the hostel, several of these men ran toward the entry, maybe hoping to get inside and away from the shameful lack of brutality they'd brought on themselves. I fixed myself to the spot, dropped my arms and prepared to repel the ineptly invading force, but at the last minute they decided against whatever bizarre course of action they had set on. Another small faction within the larger debacle seemed to be at odds with itself, with members asking eachother such questions as, "What am I supposed to say?!" and "How are you going to handle that?!?" in response to some events I assume were unknowable to the outside observer. It was a confusing time on the streets of San Francisco, clearly.
The degree of furiously violent intent was matched only by the gross and catastrophic inability of the combatants involved. As the maelstrom of ineptitude churned around the street I found myself actually becoming frustrated. When a group of people descend on one another with such unshielded aggression, you'd expect at least someone to reap that whirlwind. But as I watched this, it appeared as the proverbial sound and fury, signifying nothing. None of these bastards was any worse for the wear, and as the festivities wound to an impotent close all I could do was laugh. My laughter attracted the attention of a crackhead on the sidewalk next to me, who responded with a jovial stream of gibberish and a resonant chortle of approval. I think I made out the words "wild" and "geeyone" but I'm not sure what that last one meant. I suppose every tragic cataclysm is incomplete without a touch of the gnostic.
This began around 2:10 am. The entire humiliating attempt at violence lasted for maybe 10 minutes. As the sirens wailed in the distance and the last holdouts of hopeful fighters stopped trying to injure eachother and scattered back into the woodwork, I went back inside. Five patrol cars screeched to a halt in the intersection and the officers emerged ready for action, shotguns in hand, but there was none to be had. At the end of the day, more damage was caused to hands and elbows hitting concrete than anything else. The stick wielding gladiator will probably have a sore knee tomorrow. I honestly hope everyone involved is ashamed of themselves, because that shit was just plain pathetic.
ps- the title to this post is a reference to a movie. Anyone guessing which movie this is gets accolades.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
eyes skyward
Sitting in my room now, thinking back as is my want, on the events that have brought me to where I am, cataloging the various lines of causation and moments of decision like some retarded archivist, one thing (well, many things) has began to loom in the muddy waters of my recollection. Time has past since that day, maybe not enough. But during my time living back home, 8 odd months of powerful time, it was the darkest day among many. Not literally, obviously, it's Atascadero what do you expect.
On March 2nd, I shot my dog in the head. I knew the day was coming, long in advance as a matter of fact. Years even. I had always pledged that I would shoot that dog when the time came. This animal was a singular figure in my life, who outshone me as a figure of identity associated with my household. I remember the first day he showed up, fresh from the pound picked out by my brother. I got a phone call informing me of our new family acquisition while I was whiling away my summer days at my friend Geoff's house. Bandit, he was called, and a neurotic and borderline psychotic beast was he. I could go on for years, but anyone who met the creature knows it. Anyway, the years waned for the beast, as they do for everything but dracula and thermodynamics, and the old signs of age began to rear their hoary heads. Bad hips, low energy, an inability to eat food regularly. I knew the time was drawing nigh when he couldn't hop the 2 feet up onto a couch anymore. I dedicated a bullet to the event, and let it sit high up on my wall, on top of a framed book plate I had gotten for them ol' holidays. There the cartridge rested as the months went by, the dog slowly degrading in mind and body. The second time he was picked up by the animal control people I knew things were bad. His brain, always an organ filled with inane and pointless, though powerful and definite, machinations was going. He'd get lost in the neighborhood, being driven back to the family manse by well-meaning folks who knew where he lived. On the 1st of March, he'd been missing for a day or so. The pound was closed for the weekend, so I couldn't call. I was actually out of town, in San Francisco, when my brother called me to say they found out he was locked in the clink again. It was time, I knew that. I headed south thinking about that bullet.
My mother had picked him up, and the morning of the 2nd he tottered around her house. She tried to feed him, but everything he ate came right back up. We knew for a long time he was riddled with tumors, the growths under his skin misshapen and plentiful. When I arrived to pick him up he was confused. Maybe a little afraid. I told myself he couldn't know what was coming. I didn't want him to know. I wanted this to be a normal day for him, ideally one where he felt comfortable. But he was afraid. I coaxed him into the car and drove him back home. The sky was clouded over. It has been lightly drizzling that morning, but small shoots of light were breaking through. We went into the house and said our goodbyes. I took the bullet from it's place on the wall, drew my old rifle from behind my bed and walked out into the backyard.
During the time when this dog was capable of playing catch, and he was capable of playing catch for longer than any human was capable of playing throw, you'd always know when your arm would get it's long awaited reprieve when he'd jump the fence around the pond at the back of the yard and stand, chest deep in the stagnant, slimy water. So that's where I took him. A place that he'd associated with rest in life. I figured it was only appropriate. Walking out there, the smallest things are scored onto my memory. The patchy grass swishing underfoot, the weight of the rifle in my arms, the slight shifting of a concrete block as I walked over it. We arrived to the front of the pond and stopped. I loaded the rifle with that single bullet. I'd like to say that the dog was clearly ailing. Maybe that he was on his last legs. Ideally that he was unable to walk, or some canine malady had rendered him gibbering. But for a slight trepidation though, he was fine. That was the worst thing.
The next sequence of events play themselves over and over in my head. I don't have any regret, I don't think things should have gone differently. Bandit stood facing the garden, or what used to be the garden. I told him to sit, which he obviously didn't do. He was deaf as a post by this time of life. I nudged him with the side of my leg and he complied, hunkering down on his haunches and looking toward the sky. He had a lifelong hatred of anything flying. I pressed the muzzle of that gun to the back of his head and pulled the trigger. I didn't pause for thought, I didn't say a word to him. I couldn't even look him in the face, for my cowardice. The rifle cracked like thunder, a short bellow from some shitty dragon, smoke belched and muzzle flashed. Bandit slumped to the ground. Death is never an immediate thing, especially for something as alive as that. As neurons (what neurons weren't obliterated by the passage of hot lead) fired and nerves pulsed their last spasmodic pulse, he rose halfway up to his feet, quaking like some broken machine. He pushed himself back over onto one side, lying flat on the ground. I staggered back, sitting heavily on the wet grass. I felt numb for a moment. I felt cold. As I sat there, clutching that filthy old dragon in my arms, I watched as the final throes shuddered through the body. The last nervous impulse was the tail. He lay on the ground, wagging for all he was worth before he stilled.
“Godspeed, Bandit” I said to the silent corpse, as I sat and sobs shook my body, hugging the still-warm rifle next to me, wishing more than anything else that I had someone living by my side. “Remember how this feels,” I thought to myself. I have no idea why. It's not something that a person can forget.
After I felt like I couldn't cry anymore, I rose from my spot in the grass and hefted my shovel. I dug through the turf and as far down through the rocky clay as I could. I walked around the front of the corpse. The passage of a bullet isn't a clean affair. One of his eyes bulged sickeningly from the socket. His jaw was shattered. Flecks of gray matter stood out around the ragged hole and his vibrant red vigor clotted on the green grass. Honestly the whole effect struck me as somewhat cartoonish. To give some composure to the dead, I kicked the errant eye back into the ocular cavity with the heel of my shoe. Grasping the body, two legs in each hand, I dropped it into this shallow pauper's grave. Not big enough. I pulled the carcass out and set to digging again. When I dropped it in a second time, the hollow clucking sound of broken skull making me wince, it was a better fit, but not deep enough. Out he came again, and I set to work with a pick ax in the clay. Finally, down went the body and in went the dirt. I packed the earth with the flat of the shovel, leaned against the fencepost and smoked. The clouds started to cover again, a light rain began and so I headed back into the house. Pepper, the uppity Airedale terrier that was the charge of a tenant above the barn, wouldn't come near me. She barked madly from a distance, tail between her legs and ears flat against her skull. I know, girl. Me too. I retreated back into my room. I drank myself into oblivion that night, and for many many nights afterward. More than anything, I wanted someone to be there for me, someone to be with. But that is definitely asking too much of Atascadero. I sat alone in my room for a long time after that, my days punctuated with trips to the bathroom and excursions to replenish my whiskey supplies. The whole time I was hoping something would come to break me out of that stupor. Nothing ever did. I hate Atascadero.
On March 2nd, I shot my dog in the head. I knew the day was coming, long in advance as a matter of fact. Years even. I had always pledged that I would shoot that dog when the time came. This animal was a singular figure in my life, who outshone me as a figure of identity associated with my household. I remember the first day he showed up, fresh from the pound picked out by my brother. I got a phone call informing me of our new family acquisition while I was whiling away my summer days at my friend Geoff's house. Bandit, he was called, and a neurotic and borderline psychotic beast was he. I could go on for years, but anyone who met the creature knows it. Anyway, the years waned for the beast, as they do for everything but dracula and thermodynamics, and the old signs of age began to rear their hoary heads. Bad hips, low energy, an inability to eat food regularly. I knew the time was drawing nigh when he couldn't hop the 2 feet up onto a couch anymore. I dedicated a bullet to the event, and let it sit high up on my wall, on top of a framed book plate I had gotten for them ol' holidays. There the cartridge rested as the months went by, the dog slowly degrading in mind and body. The second time he was picked up by the animal control people I knew things were bad. His brain, always an organ filled with inane and pointless, though powerful and definite, machinations was going. He'd get lost in the neighborhood, being driven back to the family manse by well-meaning folks who knew where he lived. On the 1st of March, he'd been missing for a day or so. The pound was closed for the weekend, so I couldn't call. I was actually out of town, in San Francisco, when my brother called me to say they found out he was locked in the clink again. It was time, I knew that. I headed south thinking about that bullet.
My mother had picked him up, and the morning of the 2nd he tottered around her house. She tried to feed him, but everything he ate came right back up. We knew for a long time he was riddled with tumors, the growths under his skin misshapen and plentiful. When I arrived to pick him up he was confused. Maybe a little afraid. I told myself he couldn't know what was coming. I didn't want him to know. I wanted this to be a normal day for him, ideally one where he felt comfortable. But he was afraid. I coaxed him into the car and drove him back home. The sky was clouded over. It has been lightly drizzling that morning, but small shoots of light were breaking through. We went into the house and said our goodbyes. I took the bullet from it's place on the wall, drew my old rifle from behind my bed and walked out into the backyard.
During the time when this dog was capable of playing catch, and he was capable of playing catch for longer than any human was capable of playing throw, you'd always know when your arm would get it's long awaited reprieve when he'd jump the fence around the pond at the back of the yard and stand, chest deep in the stagnant, slimy water. So that's where I took him. A place that he'd associated with rest in life. I figured it was only appropriate. Walking out there, the smallest things are scored onto my memory. The patchy grass swishing underfoot, the weight of the rifle in my arms, the slight shifting of a concrete block as I walked over it. We arrived to the front of the pond and stopped. I loaded the rifle with that single bullet. I'd like to say that the dog was clearly ailing. Maybe that he was on his last legs. Ideally that he was unable to walk, or some canine malady had rendered him gibbering. But for a slight trepidation though, he was fine. That was the worst thing.
The next sequence of events play themselves over and over in my head. I don't have any regret, I don't think things should have gone differently. Bandit stood facing the garden, or what used to be the garden. I told him to sit, which he obviously didn't do. He was deaf as a post by this time of life. I nudged him with the side of my leg and he complied, hunkering down on his haunches and looking toward the sky. He had a lifelong hatred of anything flying. I pressed the muzzle of that gun to the back of his head and pulled the trigger. I didn't pause for thought, I didn't say a word to him. I couldn't even look him in the face, for my cowardice. The rifle cracked like thunder, a short bellow from some shitty dragon, smoke belched and muzzle flashed. Bandit slumped to the ground. Death is never an immediate thing, especially for something as alive as that. As neurons (what neurons weren't obliterated by the passage of hot lead) fired and nerves pulsed their last spasmodic pulse, he rose halfway up to his feet, quaking like some broken machine. He pushed himself back over onto one side, lying flat on the ground. I staggered back, sitting heavily on the wet grass. I felt numb for a moment. I felt cold. As I sat there, clutching that filthy old dragon in my arms, I watched as the final throes shuddered through the body. The last nervous impulse was the tail. He lay on the ground, wagging for all he was worth before he stilled.
“Godspeed, Bandit” I said to the silent corpse, as I sat and sobs shook my body, hugging the still-warm rifle next to me, wishing more than anything else that I had someone living by my side. “Remember how this feels,” I thought to myself. I have no idea why. It's not something that a person can forget.
After I felt like I couldn't cry anymore, I rose from my spot in the grass and hefted my shovel. I dug through the turf and as far down through the rocky clay as I could. I walked around the front of the corpse. The passage of a bullet isn't a clean affair. One of his eyes bulged sickeningly from the socket. His jaw was shattered. Flecks of gray matter stood out around the ragged hole and his vibrant red vigor clotted on the green grass. Honestly the whole effect struck me as somewhat cartoonish. To give some composure to the dead, I kicked the errant eye back into the ocular cavity with the heel of my shoe. Grasping the body, two legs in each hand, I dropped it into this shallow pauper's grave. Not big enough. I pulled the carcass out and set to digging again. When I dropped it in a second time, the hollow clucking sound of broken skull making me wince, it was a better fit, but not deep enough. Out he came again, and I set to work with a pick ax in the clay. Finally, down went the body and in went the dirt. I packed the earth with the flat of the shovel, leaned against the fencepost and smoked. The clouds started to cover again, a light rain began and so I headed back into the house. Pepper, the uppity Airedale terrier that was the charge of a tenant above the barn, wouldn't come near me. She barked madly from a distance, tail between her legs and ears flat against her skull. I know, girl. Me too. I retreated back into my room. I drank myself into oblivion that night, and for many many nights afterward. More than anything, I wanted someone to be there for me, someone to be with. But that is definitely asking too much of Atascadero. I sat alone in my room for a long time after that, my days punctuated with trips to the bathroom and excursions to replenish my whiskey supplies. The whole time I was hoping something would come to break me out of that stupor. Nothing ever did. I hate Atascadero.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
The Chase
Well, after a loud and busy though otherwise uneventful night (drunken belgians, crack deals, swearing frenchmen, the usual), I managed to spot something worth reporting on. I was outside at 4:30, enjoying a cigarette with a hostel guest from Santa Cruz, remembering my old haunts and talking about how disgusting woodsies are, when the sound of crazed shouting started around the block. Now, this is a normal turn of events in the Tenderloin, as anyone who as spent any amount of time around these few blocks knows, so I didn't pay a great deal of heed. The distance-muffled sound of running became more distinct and a youth of maybe 18, short, wearing a giant black jacket, came from around the corner of Larkin. From behind him, I could hear a bellowed tirade in an elderly tenor, the sound of labored running, and as the figure came into view 25 yards behind this running kid what turned out to be the rapid tack-tack sound of a cane on the concrete. It was a withered, ancient looking man, back crooked and face weathered, his pursuit assisted by a wooden cane as he limped after the boy, actually gaining!
"You fucking bitch!" he shouted at this kid's back, "You better hope I don't catch your faggot ass!!"
The kid slowed, clearly tired, but kept his feet pounding down Ellis. The elder behind him showed no sign of slacking his pace, as he closed more of the gap. We had been joined shortly before by a dealer from the corner, trying to bum cigarettes and blasting music out of his cell phone. The tinny sounds of Solja Boy acted as soundtrack to the chase. With a solemn look, in a serious voice, the dealer says, "With the cane, ol' man's not gonna make it. That's the streets." And I suppose that is the streets.
Like a weather beaten tripod, down the street the old man chased, a perpetual stream of profane curses wishing the worst on this kid who did him wrong. Turning the corner at the end of the block the sounds faded, the dealer walked off to ply his trade, and I finished my cigarette. I'd like to think that the old man won out in the end there, but honestly there are no real good guys in situations like that. There's bad and worse. Or bad and just as bad, at best. That's the streets, I suppose. Interesting thing to see though.
"You fucking bitch!" he shouted at this kid's back, "You better hope I don't catch your faggot ass!!"
The kid slowed, clearly tired, but kept his feet pounding down Ellis. The elder behind him showed no sign of slacking his pace, as he closed more of the gap. We had been joined shortly before by a dealer from the corner, trying to bum cigarettes and blasting music out of his cell phone. The tinny sounds of Solja Boy acted as soundtrack to the chase. With a solemn look, in a serious voice, the dealer says, "With the cane, ol' man's not gonna make it. That's the streets." And I suppose that is the streets.
Like a weather beaten tripod, down the street the old man chased, a perpetual stream of profane curses wishing the worst on this kid who did him wrong. Turning the corner at the end of the block the sounds faded, the dealer walked off to ply his trade, and I finished my cigarette. I'd like to think that the old man won out in the end there, but honestly there are no real good guys in situations like that. There's bad and worse. Or bad and just as bad, at best. That's the streets, I suppose. Interesting thing to see though.
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