Tuesday, August 3, 2010

Clock ticking

Most of the times I can say, "At least I've got my health." After all, I made it a priority after 5 years of limping on crutches in the 90s. That and old Grandpa Stevens said you don't have anything if you don't have your health. So, I made it a priority to do things that were generally healthy such as bicycling and living simply with no chemical soaps or packaged food. I didn't say the things were safe, but they were healthy in that Native American way. This worked for the most part except when I threw my back out in the merchant marines so badly that I pissed myself and still feel the bulge of muscles and also when I tore my groin in Wyoming and separated my shoulders...
But really, that shit could happen to anyone. I didn't do it on purpose, but in the pursuit of a healthy lifestyle I crossed the line a few times...but at least I ended up in Alaska, living cheap, reading, crippled, but otherwise heart healthy. My soul was uninjured, is my point.

Alas, sometimes a perfect shit storm arrives and I am not only sick but I am also soullessly vacuuming my morals into outer space. That was the last week of July for me as I did nothing less than fuck dirty old men in port-o-potties for cash (moral equivalent of copper mining)...maybe it was this terrible turn in fortunes and maybe it was the 2X4 scorpion bowl anesthesia administered by Dr. Hawkins. I don't know, but either way I was both soullessly grieving AND ALSO violently ill. That means puking in the parking lot of the very job where I am on short notice due to my behavior (pointing to a diagram and both me and my boss noticing simultaneously that my finger is quivering like a Geiger counter) pale skin, hacking cough, teary eyes. So I must hide my vomit behind car and in bushes and quickly slip into the bathroom to vomit and emerge with a fake smile.
"It's almost Monday." is the fake office humor comments that I grin at.
"Yep. Almost Monday."
I burp vomit flavored gas from my bloated belly and return to my work bench with pages of wire run sheets and connector details. Where did that 22 AWG female D sub pin belong? It's almost Monday...Almost...

This is when I'm defenseless as being broke led me to the devil's workshop, forging impenetrable copper arrays for demons in dark places. And also being physically bereft leaves me weaving through dead bunny corpses and seeing how close to that on coming car I can get, sweat pouring from my gray hair, three day old beard filled with dandruff and pollen like a hoary tree designated for the mill.

But I shut off all communication and meditated on this situation for one day, sweating through withdrawals like Miles Davis kicking heroin. My soul has gone into hibernation.

The ignorant will say I should find another line of work. My answer is that this line of work is sucking the life blood from all that is sacred. Knowing it, and understanding it may be the only way to stop it. See, it will kill us all whether I work there or not. But I can't turn my head away and pretend being a watch repairman is going to stop this assault on the earth's heavy metals. Neither can you.

Yes, dwelling in the belly of the beast is a dangerous pastime. It has costs but the payoff will hopefully be a better understanding of the world we live in, the insane industry that man abides by. Thoreau was a simple man and that left his world view simple, limited, undeveloped. He spoke without a businessman's experiences. He trusted his instincts. But that's not how the world works. Most people obey the media and the media has replaced instincts with filth. I remember 1987 bonfire beer parties and feeling that we acted like this not from choice but because we saw it in Animal House. The drunk guys were the heroes...thus...let's drink. Our cultural habits were adopted from screenwriter fathers. I don't believe this is an accident. It's too diabolical...too perfectly designed to keep the common man obsessed with beer and sports while the Pharaohs plunder the earth.

How will it end?

First, I will take my head out of the toilet.
Second, I resolve to complete my treatise on the poisonous cultural forces at work.

I can not do this alone. The war has begun and I'm telling you the enemy is working day and night to destroy us. He lurks among you. He must be challenged or we are all facing a never ending work day that divides and conquers us, leaving our souls to be ravaged by demons.

OK, that sounded a little insane, but seriously, what is it going to take? Just tell me. Let's make a plan.
I bring this up because I'm on the brink of great changes. Labrador, the fourth corner, beckons. Kelly Anne requested something optimistic but this is all I could come up with. It's sort of optimistic.


Beaten said...

King Ron says I embarrass, myself when I post stuff about myself, and anyone else, is this the devil in which are talking about. Opressive stacks of corralled moral? Fuck If I embarrass myself, what are you doing??, I am working dilligently on a job that will yeild me a KLR, and a few months of security. I need to get the fuck out of here and embarrass myself int the artic.
We can beat this temporarily in the mean time with a scorpion bowl.

Anonymous said...



Nah said...

No Drummer,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

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Man in the Van by Oggy Bleacher is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 3.0 Unported License.