I have always been a collector of devices and ships, in the same way that some clutch rosaries and talismans, I find that the right thing makes the voyage, picks the lock, even the right hinge, opens the door. And while if you mumble in fright and your knife rusts, I hunch over a smouldering flame with a bladder of air, seeking combinations of fire and water that will leave me with an edge the first argument with a monster failed to invoke.
But space, ah, space, she is the strange one, is she not??? Stranger than time, stranger than heat, stranger, even than hate, I would think. For those who would not flee hate into space, where, even more despicable things happen, are many. And yet, there is nothing there, the other problem, is it not???
Only the miracle of a cat’s nine lives is enough to launch me out of the womb of gravity, you see, and a world, like this one, where interstellar travel is impossible, is an irresistable sanctuary to those of us who have lost some of our and your lives wandering amongst the stars… You know, the fine winery of, while dying, waking up somewhere else, is really the bittersweetest gem of all, and a world like yours plagued with flash in the pan lives of insignificant beings, is truly priceless for those of us attempting to uncarve our destinies from the magnetic lure of those impossible vampires, consuming time and matter with the gnawing madness of a crushing future, the black holes. Reincarnating out of a disaster involving a black hole does present some special efforts, and, as I have the time to kill, allow me to entertain you, and, perhaps, together, we shall sweep back the curtain, which is no curtain at all, Maya’s Precious Veil.
I fell in love with diesels before I knew, how black they would make me.
I grew up as it is said, in the eighties surrounded by characters who by now, are a kung fu instructor, a chemist in Hawaii, dope smuggler in prison, these are all alpha particle motions precipitating lives, and of course, many other things. Me??? I am under the radar, bludgeoning my impulses until they are smooth again like I demand, frying under the frictionless, feedbackless process of knowing better without getting off the train at any of the available nowhere stations. I will admit, I just remembered a lot of this just now, tonight, myself, so whatever bullshit there may be here, it is not particularly refined, and hopefully, may be brushed aside as easily as a cobweb in a silent tomb.
I have had a hard time getting back into the mystical levels of astral journeying, because of what has transpired there for me already. I, decades ago, would drop acid and brush up against the freezer door of some ancient corpse of mine in suspended animation, to recoil against any further disassociative journeying. Oh, and all those around me drawn to black magik, some with spectacular results, like Stephan stopping a tiger in the jungles of Cambodia two days ago armed only with a case of beer, (which he threw, until he got to the last one, which he decided to drink, since the tiger still hadn’t left and it might be the last beer he ever got to drink…), and the perhaps not so successful one, David, whose neck was broken in the dark cradle of the Pacific, Goat Rock, California, at 26, sitting in the asana yoga position, in the surf where sleeper waves famously strike the unsuspecting.
I, like I say, have had a hard time with any of that, though, I had an easy time of believing I was from the stars as a child, as I matured I realized, I would never be dumb enough to risk my primary form in a vacuum. Especially since, it was pretty obvious that there was another principle to star travel, The Onion, in and in, layer after layer, even if the guardians thereabouts are a perennial pain in the nether regions. It has, you know been a real challenge to integrate, I nervously abstain from peyote, from absinthe, from datura. I would love to absorb and challenge these chemical rides, but, a brain is like a ship, nothing in there usually wants to jump off and swim away when it’s not welcome anymore, and, you’re stuck riding out your guests.
It has taken me a very long time to find a machine that allows me to prowl America right, Nasty Little Motel Cash Hoover Silicone Boob Headline Parking Meter Joint Dislocation affecting the indigenous natives like Montezuma’s revenge finds its victims, one glass of water and a chicken leg from death every day. But, I have found it, a 6 cylinder turbo diesel out of a UPS truck, slammed into a 1965 ford F!)). That’s 100 capitalized, and this baby, can only stay resurrected out of the boneyards, has no use for the Man anymore, kiss the big 3 goodbye in one orgy of a gypsy temple, dig? Her sister, the 1964 econoline, gets a Benz diesel next time her straight six cooks, please god never again, from that doggy airflow them doghouse powertrains got. She’s already a full-fledged vampire roadster too, ‘67 mustang six,65 Bronco three on the tree, 90 Camaro ignition, motor spins like a champ, though, she’s marooned in my poor old mum’s backyard, until I get up to welding a rollcage in her, I’m sick of sitting on top of the front tire, racing down the double yellow defying freeway champions, wondering where my legs go in a headon, you know? Anyways, cars, are pretty bad when they’re bad, like lovers and stories and, that’s why, I finally remembered what the hell my spaceship was, is, tonight. I’m 43! Am I a champ or what?
Enter the Hyacinth Mantis. I have only been on board her here, one time, this lifetime, and, I was too frightened of me to process the incredible sophistication of her core at the time. That was about 23 years ago, the first time I really, really, ate a lot of acid. The first thing that happened on that trip, which started on telegraph avenue in berkeley at Blondie;s pizza, was that I saw a pair of massive snakes winding through the bricks of Bank of America across the street, and not very far away either, Telegraph is intimate. I never thought it was a hallucination, still don’t. If that ain’t the house of snakes, what is? There were other bricks, all over, all night, and you know what, I’ve never seen snake bricks since that moment, but I believe it to this day.
B of A, serious snake infestation, needs to be taken apart, brick by brick. ASAP.
Ok, you probably think I was delirious when I started processing myself and my friend as the guys named Dan and Chris. But, you see, at the time, I was in her, in the Hyacinth Mantis core, and all hormonal and shakra and indentificational energy was suspended while i was this cat who just moved, just expressed itself into the ship, to get into the trip. Not pleasant, still not sure about who’s in charge, Johnson or me, but, I’m hell down with Johnson, you know. There was, however, no denying the HYMAN.
He she it or whatever i was in there didn’t seem too worried about not having any junk between its legs. It’s taken me a long time to process, because, on the one hand, there’s this curtain called death and this stream called the styx between me and my genitals, but on the other hand, this joint is a crumb off the reference librarian’s table in the galaxy, being famous here is guaranteed to provoke a well deserved laugh at any decent oasis in the Uverse. HYMAN never bothered to correct me, it did, however speed me past a lot of ego struggles even today, even. So, what went on, down???
Now I get it, when I saw her, HYMAN was dying, it’s that phase of implosion crysalis where all the ghosts gather round to ride the bull at the only game in town, the Soul Rodeo. Somewhere up ahead, Majik Mojo and Science all compete for the same Sign, immortality. We can’t help it, though Ghod Knows, we won’t survive ourselves, that’s just a story we have been working on?
HYMAN had been hit, she was riding the hard stuff, didn’t have time for me, time to explain the workings, but now that I know, I am built to build the Hyancinth Mantis. From the dream up.
One of my mom’s neighbors, who can talk the balls off a Basketball Court, and I mean Pro Balls, and not just the one they’re bouncing around, neither, this guy can shoot the shit, well, he knows a damn lot and he’s got the goods to prove it, well, he custom built this Willy’s Sedan a ‘41, smokin’ Hot Black Laquer dragster rear end roadster, designed and supervised its construction, actually, all that’s factory is the panels and rails, not the fenders even, he got around to reading this, he might believe a drop or two, he’s a strange bird, but, he doesn’t understand how much chaos has to be allowed into a good design…
He says he gets rear-ended in his piece, he’ll floor and total the sucker, take the insurance. Never, ever, do that to the Hyacinth Mantis. She’s scattered on the floor of the earth right now, crawlingout of my synthesizers and leathermaking tools, whispering patterns and riffs, showing up in broken children’s toys from abandoned rental houses in Vallejo, California where I’m general contracting while I try and get me game on. Me real.
Last night was Halloween, and, around midnight I came in a nightmare of self-acceptance, A shite mirror of old dead bluesmen and cocksuckers, got my heart, my cum going, but it wasn’t good news. Trade it in in a heartbeat for that long raven haired beauty with the big dog going down the trail by the bay today in the afternoon light, the one whose hello echoed with the transfiguration of her into my kind of woman. Could it work? I don’t know, I’m scared, I already poured my heart on the floor once this goddamn week for a woman, and thought about firing my coworkers and telling my client to fukooff and all that shite, get greyhair noway coolit man! Gotta fly outta here somehow, but, what am i, what are we, to do? Scare the undead back into their crap infested lagoon mansions, fence off the uranium scabs, bring back the bison, do leds really need cadmium? SHit, I gotta look that up. Just jumped up, stuck a power drill on a coconut, stuck a straw in, and sucked her ouT! pure slice of heaven, it don’t come in a can, you know….