AUTHOR.CALHO: If I didn't write it, I would be hitch hiking cross country to Maine and then Alaska in that order. While taking frequent breaks to spread leaflets. And sit in diners. And write on things because I wasn't at a computer. I may still do that in a few years. Writing this also helps me forget about and better understand the limitations of being human, and keeps me busy enough to allow me no free time to burn the world down.

THEMATIC.ABOUT : Collapse often. The things that hold people together and hold them apart and scatter brains. The things that make thoughts go boom. The things that ooh and aah and [expletive deleted]. Sometimes poking around the margins where responsibility ends and the only one to look to is the Original Equipment Manufacturer and say "but, I already pressed 9 for more options and the menus are exactly the same. Can you just replace it?" The answer will be: "please hold." Sometimes hanging out in dark corners. Sometimes following the train tracks. Looking for ways out and ways in and all the while sharing the things seen and heard and done and drawn and written and scorched and healed and teased and caged and dreamed along the way.

9/9/11

What Is It All About?

Dreamed I cheated my way to the top of the financial food chain and bought an awesome house in the hills of Nassau county and went on the inspirational speech touring circuit with Roger Staubach.

Then one fateful day while at home alone and drawing up notes for a lecture series at nyu titled "only your successes are successful" and for some trying to cook rice, some of it fell on the floor. No big deal I thought. Went to pick it up and I pull my hand away with a fist sized rat burying it's teeth into my palm.

Naturally I whip it against the wall except it doesn't die.  Two more rats climb out of the seams of my red sofa, pause a minute to sniff around in the afternoon, and then they tear the gimp rat apart and then come after me.

Dump the boiling hot rice on them, problem solved. Except Tapirs start climbing out of my trash cans and their heads are just bleeding holes atop their necks, sucking at air like a baby's mouth thats had all of it's undescended teeth ripped out of it's gumbs.  Tapirs a lot bigger in person.

Thats when porcupines with no eyes in their sockets start rolling out from under the couch and eating all of my notes scattered everywhere, and I try to smash them with books but every time I swing I get nothing but quills in the backs of my hands and arms and the quills fill with blood and drip it onto my carpet and the stains well up and bubble into more rats.

So I fight my way out of there and I'm in a hotel lobby with late 70s limousines parked everywhere and roger staubach gets out of one and walks past me with nine security guards, and I'm thinking it's a bit excessive when I hear over the radio through one ofthe drivers open windows that Staubach has been implicated in the murder of more than thirty members of a local human trafficking organization operating in the Gulf coast, but only to force them out so his own drug smuggling operation could operate smoother.

The driver I'm standing near just starts laughing his ass off and then, as he's laughing and I'm trying to get my head around the last thirty minutes two of the limousines explode and my life flashes before my eyes, but instead of my whole life it's high school algebra on aday we had class outside.

The teacher is drawing on her board and it's all unreadable text. Bent lines and short half moons and dashes and shes reading and pointing to the symbols and saying numbers and operations and everyone in class is lying in the grass on white mats, all cloud watching and sweating.

I roll over on my back my toes are touching some girls calf and someones knees are at my hip and everything feels taut and slick and sunny and the professor continues to drone on not caring that no one is paying attention.

A breeze blows and I crane my neck all the way back to let the air dry me off and I open my eyes and find I am staring up between a classmates spread legs and skirt and shes got a full on chubby from lying in the grass on her stomach, rolling her hips.

I let myself fall back and go back to cloud watching and the buzzing and someone puts their hand up my shirt on my stomach and all I think is how you can't get in trouble for touching if it isn't sex. And I yawned and stretched, heady and tired with all the sun and math, and let one of my hands rest there over my head against their wet skin.

Then the flash ended and I woke up. Safe and sound, horny, and with a new found respect for tapirs (dangerous beasts), cleaning up after myself when I cook, karma, and roger staubach.

But other than that I have no clue what last night was all about.

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