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Oh Captain
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2002-06-13 18:59:16 (UTC)

Chapter 7

"Someone told me long ago There's a calm before the
storm,
I know; It's been comin' for some time.
When it's over, so they say, It'll rain a sunny day,
I know; Shinin' down like water."
-John Fogerty
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What a fucking bitch! Hugh Hefner doesn’t know what
he’s doing. Surrounding himself with women, the same
species as my dearest, will surely, sooner or later put a
man to the fucking grave in a heartbeat or not a
heartbeat. Don’t get me wrong, women aren’t all that
bad it’s just that they think, I think they think, on a whole
different plane of normal existence. They’re thought
process is not necessarily worse but for this point I will
call it worse. They leave you with some of the most
beautiful, perfect and unrivaled moments in the
existence of the color red. This is good, also, because
they give you moments to subconsciously compare to
other moments. I love women but they’re just better
than me. It’s an impossible situation because we live
with capitalism. Bigger is better and all that steaming
grand shit.

With disco beats putting your better self to shame
you walk through an ominous black door, a door of
wisdom if you will. Like a sports car in the slow lane
you think, what the fuck is up with lesbians. It makes
you want to be a lesbian, they just seemed so
enlightened don’t they, aside from their sadness. Then
you think, that’s why I’m not a lesbian, besides the fact
that I’m a guy, I’ve never seen a genuinely happy
lesbian. It’s a catch 22 in a way, because what is
happiness, so to speak? It’s impossible to
communicate happiness because it’s all individualistic.
I could tell you that I was happy but would you believe
me. I guess if you were naïve you’d have to but other
than that I know you wouldn’t, especially with that sorry
banter on women and all.

We’re all culpable, just not in the most common
form of thinking. The way it is, is that we are either all
with blame or all without blame because
everything is "human nature". It’s obscure to me to see
one chastise another for "murdering" another person
but only to turn around and say that we evolved from
monkeys. Evolution hasn’t given us anything, just
records of where nature has raped us and torn us a
new asshole. Evolution is dead. It doesn’t seem to me
something that can inspire or be inspired. It just is and
it’s bland and broad and leaves a bad taste in your
mouth, like English food.

Ah, and the beat goes on. But the beat from the heat
of the motor trained street evaporates and leaves you
with the tendency to over-eat. I wish I lived in a stable
little valley with corn, beans and pigs. Tightrope walkers
wouldn’t fall. Pens wouldn’t bust. And pace-makers
wouldn’t utter that creepy little click-click sound you’ve
been getting used to. Everything you write is funny and
chic and everything you don’t isn’t published. They have
fireworks for you when you get over a cold and women
never had "sufferage". Hank Williams is playing on the
roof of your house and all the school houses burn burn
burn like fabulous yellow candles exploding across a
fart ridden sky.

I once had a thought that we could possibly be
breathing the same air General Lee used to order his
men to death at Cemetery Hill. The same air careening
through the voice box of Jenna Jameson while she lost
her virginity. The same air that assured Robert Plant he
was a rock star. I then thought that in believing this, my
sweet little lotion driven dream, I am obliging and
submitting to the fact that I’m breathing in their farts and
morning breath as well. Everything fucks up when you
put it to logic. My valley would flood. My tightrope
walkers would get drunk. Pens would have to be
imported and somebody would wipe their ass with
leaves of paper and circulate it. I say fuck logic. I say we
should stop. Just stop and listen to the hero of our
story, the rain!

Everything is with the absence of rain. Have you ever
seen the rain? The answer is yes, yes you have.
Anyway, about the rain, I was thinking and I’ve come to
the conclusion that it is indifferent, indifferent of course,
when it’s treated with human characteristics. This is
always, for some reason, the logical progression of
things. To expound, it is the hero. That isn’t really
expounding is it. You see, rain is unforeseen and
random as all hell no matter what you hear from those
Brother’s Grimm or Frenchmen or seamen. It doesn’t
hate you. The inconvenience that it spreads tightly
across your lap is just that, inconvenience. It digs
making the family picnic seem like a meaningless plug
to try and get to know the children. It loves to take you
and a girl on a journey of moon ridden physical poetry
that both of you don’t have to vocabulary or Spanish to
describe. Rain doesn’t love you either, unfortunately I
guess. It is unforeseen and random as hell on its own
volition or not actually, which makes it more mysterious
and even arbitrary to us. This is the best kind of hero.
He doesn’t stand for anything. He just stands. Not even
for meaninglessness will he stand. This is intangible to
us. Nothing can just be there without purpose or pull.
Trying to put words to it even seems futile and perhaps
even could be considered a sin. But take my advice and
fold this as small as you can and forget that words can
even mean something.


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