Dinner With My Wife.

I had a miserable dinner with my wife tonight. We fight like addicts, unable to relate in any other way. Night after night another argument occurs as randomly as changing weather. An inability to relate keeps us separate and keeps my heart sore. Tonight I expressed some feelings that I have about my job. I expressed apprehension about working as an English Teacher because of the low pay, my inability to spell, my inability to grasp the rules of grammar and my disdain for Shakespeare and The Great Gatsby (which I have to teach). I told her that I felt like what I had to do to work as a Teacher was standardize my mind and teach things that the state mandates that I teach despite the fact that I find it all terribly uninteresting and irrelevant to life. Lately I have been experiencing a lot of doubt about my work as a High School Teacher. Is this what I really want to do with my life? Long hours, little pay and not much glamor or reward? I expressed these sentiments and more- and the reaction I recieved from my wife pissed me off.

Love is based upon the ability to connect. If there is only a remainder of love than connection will be difficult. One firm symptom of a fading relationship is the inability to connect- which means dissolving love. The moment my wife started to fire back at me I felt my blood pressure raise. My heart skipped beats and I drank more wine. I became angrier by the minute. “We all have to do things that we do not agree with in our work…this is a realistic part of the society which we live in,” she began. “You just need to commit to something and stick with it. I believe in you and I think you have great potential as a Teacher, but your excuses and apprehension piss me off.” Her voice went up, “I know that you want to be a Writer and make a living that way but you have not done it and frankly that is not the way the world works. You are a great great Writer Randall, but you need to really start thinking about how you are going to make a living. If you are going to write novels, great- but you have not yet, and you are almost 37 years old. You need to get it together and figure out what you are going to do. If you do not want to teach than you need to come up with a game plan really quickly!” “But Kurt Vonnegut worked as a car salesman all through his forties,” I replied. “You are not Kurt Vonnegut.”

My blood began to boil. I began mumbling “bitch” under my breath. I could feel my heart rapidly beating and then the words came rushing out of my lungs. “Your attitude is not helping my confusion,” I began- “I am just trying to talk to you about how I feel. This is not about you and how you feel. I feel like I always need to keep the truth of my feelings repressed because if I open up to you and talk to you about what I am really feeling you get angry or mean. You can not handle the truth and it pisses me off!!” My wife began to roll a cigarette, “I am just so tired of your lack of clarity, your inability to stick with something and make something of your life!!” “Bitch,” snuck out of my mouth. I was feeling unheard and unappreciated (I wanted to mention the years and years that I have spent writing short stories and making paintings. I wanted to tell her that my stories and paintings will be appreciated by the masses long after I am dead. I wanted to remind her of the legend that she was sitting across from, but I slandered her instead). I do not often call people names but I could not help expressing the sentiment. “What did you call me, why don’t you call me that to my face,” she said as I excused myself from the dinner table. I came into my studio and tried to get control of my rage.

For the past twenty years I have been trying to figure out what to do with my life. I have written many short stories, thought a lot about writing plays and novels and painted many paintings but every other pursuit in my life has failed to keep my interest. I have worked as a Waiter, Shoe Salesman, Mortician, Ticket Salesperson, Teacher, Tutor, Pizza Maker, Dog Walker and Administrative Assistant. I am as dis-interested in a career as my cat is in hanging out with dogs. I am a man alone on an island fighting his own cause, waiting for great things to happen while swimming through the sea of society with barley enough money to make it through the day. If only I could figure out what I wanted to be when I grew up, then maybe my wife and I would get along and my heart would stop hurting so much.

Push Cart Sallie

I find women who are pulling shopping carts filled with empty bottles and cans to be highly attractive. I do not know from where this sexual excitation arises, but it may have something to do with my first experience with a prostitute. Her name was Push Cart Sallie and I met her while walking down a back alley in San Fransisco. She asked me if I had a cigarette or weed and I could not deny her since she also showed me her large breast which was hanging out from a ripped and stained white stretch shirt. She did not seem to be a day over forty and her physique resembled that of a model who had fallen down deep into the suffocating realms of addiction. Utilizing all of my lung capacities to take a deep breath when she asked me a question that I was to young to deny, I handed her a smoke. Yes, I wanted a hand job for five minutes and five bucks. We disappeared between a dumpster that had a tribe of pigeons scavenging for food all around it. The sun radiated down upon my penis as she pulled on it with her hands that suffered tremors which are a direct consequence of forgotten dreams. My first orgasm with a prostitute was one in which I happily came all over a pigeon loitering upon my feet.

Ever since this encounter with Push Cart Sallie I have been unconsciously hoping to replicate my experience every time I see a women pulling a shopping cart filled with empty cans and bottles. I have reached a point that no matter what the appearance of the women may be, I find myself becoming sexually aroused just looking at the way her body pulls the cart behind her or pushes it forward. It is a symbiotic chemical reaction that takes place in my brain whenever I am confronted with a woman and a shopping cart. I do not know if it is a deep longing for my lost youth that I hope to regain through recreating my first experience with a prostitute or a disturbingly unacceptable sexual dysfunction that I am suffering from. Whatever the case may be, twenty years after my experience with Push Cart Sallie, I am still searching for her in back alleys all over the world.

The Impatient Taoist

 I have decided to sleep away the rest of the day. All morning I was searching for the way, the path, the Tao. I was told to look for it in sound, smell and touch. In all these things I came up empty.I grew frustrated. I wondered around thinking about non-being and effortlessness, but found myself having to make great effort to become nothing. All I wanted was to be done with time, to relinquish the jaws of time from the hold it has upon me. I wanted to surrender myself into the greater unifying principle of space and nothingness but I had chest pain and was worried about my bank account. If I could only be fully present in the moment, which at times I am, than maybe I would see the way, the path, the Tao more clearly. Maybe I would unlearn everything that I know and become the absence that Taoists refer to as enlightenment. Over and over I repeat passages:

Do not talk about right and wrong.

Everyone should sweep the snow from  his own door

And not be concerned about the frost on another’s roof.

Over and over I tell myself, “refine the self,” but then I find myself looking up the skirts of stray women and suffering the terrible fear of death. My mind drifts as vagrantly as a piece of tissue blown by the wind. I want to uncover or unravel deeper mysteries but I also can not stop thinking about my next meal or the desire to be rich and naked and stuck in blow job orgies sipping wine. The Tao does not come easily into my mind. “Be done with mind,” certain Taoists tell me but my mind keeps me in a state of anxiety and longing and without this discomfort how would I know I was me? So I am an impatient Taoist and all my wanting and waiting has made me tired to the point that I have decided to spend the rest of the day asleep in bed. We will talk more about this later.

The Sex Life Of A Man Without One #17

 I had not thought about sex all day. The act never crossed my mind nor did I feel much interest in members of the opposite sex. Last evening was a haunting night- the thought of which I would like now to forget (read Sex Life Of a Man Without One #16 to understand what it is that I am talking about). I spent the day offline far away from the temptations of the computer and Craig’s List. I dedicated myself to more virtuous pursuits like yoga, meditation, taking out the garbage and cleaning the bathroom. I wrote in my journal for a bit and listened to a Brahms symphony over and over again until my mind was relieved of past memories. My wife was working for the majority of the day but would call me ever so often to check in with how I was feeling. “I’m having some anxiety,” I told her several times and her response was always caring and concerned. Sometimes I wonder if my wife is a saint dressed in women’s clothing.

After spending the day fertilizing the seeds of virtue I moved into night with little hesitation. The sun set as planed and the darkness fell upon my bedroom windows like it consistently does night after night. I say bedroom only because I usually am napping at this time and wake in time to watch the dusk turn dark. For dinner I met my family (father, mother, sister) at a small restaurant in a quiet town not far from where I live. The food was filling and the company cordial enough to leave me feeling happy about the few hours we spent together. My father is recovering from major surgery but he was well enough to try and convince me for a futile thirty minutes that Barack Obama was a Muslim and to drink wine and eat pork. By the end of our feast I had consumed a ceasar salad, a bottle of Italian red wine, salmon with bacon sprinkled on top and what the waiter called a chocolate bomb (chocolate ice cream on top of a chocolate fudge brownie). The bill was more than my share of the monthly rent “but the money was well spent, since I have worked my whole life to be able to afford such pleasures,” my father said. I kissed my father goodbye on the lips for the first time in my life and I found it a bit strange that he squeezed my but.

She was standing directly upon a street corner not far from my house. I would not have stopped if I was not driving drunk. My intention was to continue on with the virtuous lifestyle for one more week. This meant abstaining from all activities that left me feeling as if I had compromised my integrity. However, the wine was talking in place of my rational mind. It was Italian wine so it had a tendency to be a bit crazy over the girls. The wine said, “pull over and just see how much it would cost to touch her boobs.” My rational mind said “no just continue on home and stay on the path of virtue.” The wine said, “virtue, who are you kidding. You are a good man. There is nothing wrong with using sexy prostitutes to get off since you have not had sex with your wife in over a year. It is a matter of your health!!” My rational mind retorted, “don’t listen to the wine. It is intoxicating your better sense. If you must return home and jack off to online porn, so be it- but do not pick up the whore!!” “Alright, allright…enough!!” I yelled out loud as I drove my car around the block again to get one more glance at the prostitute.

She had blond hair and was white!! This was enough to make me give in to the wine’s will. Finding a white prostitute with blond hair in Oakland is like stumbling upon a pot of gold. My heart beat with fervent anticipation. I said to myself, “what the hell, the wine was right, this is a matter of my health.” I pulled my car over to the side of the road and waited. I have a technique that I often use. It is hard to tell what the prostitute really looks like when you are at a distance and it is dark out. When I pull over I leave my passenger side door locked and the window slightly cracked. When the prostitute approaches my car and makes an attempt to get in, they have to bend down and look in through the window- at me. “This is how I can see what they look like up close, without commiting,” my mentor taught me many years ago.

Write as I was about to unlock the door and open myself up to the wonderful world of prostitution my rational mind managed to sneak back in and say, “drive, drive away- tonight is not the night.” I felt the voice as if it had come directly from my soul. I looked into her glazed eyes and said “sorry but I can’t,” and then drove away into the night. In my rear view mirror I noticed that she was watching my car pull away like someone who had just lost an important opportunity. Even the I had and erection and a head filled with wine, I was able to return home from a pleasant evening free from the pangs of guilt and shame. Such is the life of a man without a sex life.

Sex Life Of A Man Without One #16 (Dark Night of The Soul)

      Last night I found my self alone on a dark city street. The rain was pouring down in bucket loads and the cold ravaged my bones. I walked through the Tenderloin like a man victimized by a heavy guilt with both hands tucked deeps inside my jacket pockets. What brought me out upon these dark city streets was a longing for relief, a momentary sensation of pleasure. My life has been pressured by all the many ways a man can fail. Without a job and the motivation to find one, a man is left for dead in this wild wild west. So I came out of my home past the hour of midnight and searched for a way out from the dark thoughts that projected my bleak future upon the lense of my mind. I would just walk, I told myself. Despite the demons and goblins dressed in black, searching for blood- I would walk like a man who appears to be free from the ravages of fear. I would stand tall and make my way through the desolate city streets.

I walked up and down rain covered streets. I followed my feet over cracks and used condoms. Between the sounds of alarms and sirens was a space filled with screams and shouts that emanated from deep within the cities belly. I heard the wind wrap it self around brick buildings and run head on into various street signs. The rapid pulsations in my chest spoke of a deep suffering and my feet walked at a fast pace with hope of leaving some of my suffering far behind. Mucos fell from my enlarged nose that felt infected by the damp wind. Rain fell upon my long body and heavy mind like a Baptism from the dark sky above. How had I come so far into my isolation? How had I ended up here?

After miles and miles of endless walking my legs grew weak. I stopped in at one of the only bars that I could find which was still decorated with a neon open sign. Inside sat desolate souls seeking shelter from the cold rain through the medicinal promises of booze. I sat next to a lonely soul who smelled like sadness and worried away his thoughts into a cup filled with brown wine. An older Asian lady who spoke little English served me a warm whiskey and I listened to the sounds of suffering souls like a wayward cultural anthropologist. Everything that was spoken in this bar made little sense to me. The language was incoherent and somehow seemed to be eluding to ruined dreams and better days. All the voices were raspy and filled with a guilt that was disguised by laughter so contrived that not even I was fooled. The man next to me asked me a question that I could not hear and I just sat back in my chair and looked up at God.

Had I become so helpless that my search for pleasure has lead me to this forsaken bar? Had I lost my own sense of virtue and integrity because of an irrational need to feel relief through various forms of sexual debauchery? Was the suffering that I was feeling worth the moments of pleasure that I so secretly searched for? The answer was obvious to me as I thought about my sweet wife who was sound asleep in our warm bed at home. The rose bush that grew outside our bedroom window came into my mind and all I could think was why was this not enough? What was it that my soul seemed to be so restless for? So restless that it was willing to sacrifice the only things that mattered to me my rose bush and wife)? So this is where addiction ends up. In an incoherent bar with lonely souls who are trying to laugh away their forsaken dreams. I finished my whiskey and walked back out into the cold.

As I walked through the wind and the rain I remembered something that William Shakespeare had once said. “Strong reasons make strong actions.” As I looked into the eyes of beggars who asked me for change I wondered about my own reasoning process. Did I have one, or was I merely lead by the animal instincts of my cock. Was I set on fire by an idea without any reasoning agency that could come in between the idea and the following action? This seemed to be the case. I am a man out of control and this may be the cause of every pang and curdle of anxiety and feeling of impending doom that I carry around with me through out the day. A man who lives without a feeling of control is a man who lives in fear.

I found may way back to my one legged and age-ing car which was hesitant about starting up. It was as if it was saying to me for the last time, “are you sure you want to leave behind this nightmare?” I was only to certain of the degree to which I wanted to solve my affliction and return home to the rosey comforts of domesticity. As I struggled to get my car to start I heard the cold angry rain pounding down upon my windshield as if it was trying to wash away all my sins. The rain offered itself to me at that moment, and just as I considered getting out of my car and surrendering, the car started- allowing me away away out from this dark night of my soul.

THE GREAT LEG TRAP.

I wonder about women wearing short skirts? Women wear short skirts, with bare legs and then condemn me with sinister glances when I stare. I wonder if on the unconscious level the short skirt is a device that woman use to find out who among them maybe filled with lust or inflicted with perversions. They can then stay clear of those men or women who may be hazardous to their sense of respectable self. Maybe this is to auspicious of a generalization but tonight while I was staring at a women’s legs that were long and wild like a river, I received a scolding that I am still unable to look up from. Granted I was salivating over the clarity of her skin and the subtler tones which shaped her thighs. I was worried for a moment that she may be unreal, man made- but when I saw the various tattoos, that decorated her ankles, I was almost certain she was human. The skirt that she was wearing barely made it beneath her butt and I was surprised to notice that she carried herself with a certain unpretentious confidence. Everywhere her legs walked my awe struck eyes seemed to follow.

Maybe I was being too intrusive. Or maybe I was simply inspired by the legs. I will admit that I had not noticed anything more about her until she approached me and I had to calmly look into her eyes. I denied any kind of disrespect that she was determined to staple to my forehead. Her claim that I was looking for lust in all the wrong places was one that I found equally disrespectful. I pointed out to her the perfection of her legs but her frustration only grew as I refused to apologize for swallowing up her legs with my lustful eyes. The public which had gathered around us began to listen to the scolding which was developing like a well formed plot. I was a man in love with her legs and her refusal to give them to me would cause my exile and eventual declined. I wanted to remain the gentleman who was unapologetic for his love of women, but when her lover joined her side, I began to understand the degree of my offense.

Maybe it is only gay women who wear skirts to detect the threat of a lingering male pervert? I had never encountered this kind of indignation before. Legs were there to be seen, absorbed and sometimes carried home. Enough legs had been offered to me that I felt I was privy to such long stares. Legs had caused me little problems in my life, until these superior legs which snatched all sense of composure from me. Her girlfriend told me that men were animals always lusting after the objective fantasy of the female- all I could do was reach out and attempt to calm her waving hands. When I told the lover that her girlfriend’s legs were the most beautiful appendages I had ever seen- I received a loud defamation and an invitation to step outside. I had never fought an angry lesbian lover before and I did not want to do so now. I thought about asking for the legs to be mine (she could keep the rest of the body) if I won the fight but instead I excused myself from the tense space I was in and felt the heat of vengeful words landing up on my embarrassed back. Outside, in the cold night air- I put on my winter gloves and walked into the city without any idea that I had just fallen into the great leg trap.

Sole Food.

I never knew what sole food tasted like until I felt the heel of her foot in my mouth. It was an accident that I found myself lying supine and naked upon the ground. She asked me if I wanted to “know enlightenment, straight up no chaser”, and I wanted to learn. “Directly abide by my words and you will realize that you do not exist, you never will exist and you never did exist.” “Is this a philosophy?” I asked her. “It is the truth,” she said as she took off her pantyhose. I was hesitant. I could not stop conceptualizing the scene before me. I knew we were separate identities but she wanted to make us one by sticking her foot in my mouth. This is how she found her identity, she told me- “by sticking my foot in the mouths of men.” With an almost unimaginatively subtle push I found myself opening my mouth and watching the sole of her foot make its way over my nose. My consciousness felt threatened but I held back the fear that wanted to get up and run. I focused on my breath and let her foot wonder where it will. “All sense of I is an illusion, a fabrication….and my foot is an invitation for you to find this truth out for yourself. You have no self until your mind inserts a self into it.” “I am uncomfortable,” I hesitantly spoke. “It is only a biological imperative that gives rise to your sense of discomfort, just focus on the sole of my foot and think of it as food,” she said with the calming tone of a spiritual teacher. She stuck the sole of her foot into my mouth and told me “now take your ego which is a defense against the realization of no I, or death- and lick the sole of my foot while keeping your attention away from your sense of I that may feel humiliated…..all that will be left is that which is.” With hesitation I stuck out my dry tongue and slowly began to lick what she called her “sole food.” “Lick, Lick and stop trying to conceptualizer the direct experience, just lick and soon you will be enlightened.” I licked and licked consuming myself with the sole of her foot for at least an hour and when I was done the conceptual formation of who I was- was gone. There was only an unconceptualized state in which my body felt full from consuming too much sole food.

The Shameful Life Of Salvador Dali.

The hooker in a tree called me this morning. I asked her how she got my phone number and she told me that it was copied to her cell phone from the last time I called her. “Would you like to cum up in the tree today,” Dawn asked. Strangely I was a far distance from feeling horny since my back still ached from my previous days fall. Last night my deep sleep was interrupted by hot flashes of pain triggered by every movement of my restless body. I had planed on simply staying in bed today but when she asked me if I would just come by and keep her company, I had difficulty resisting. “I enjoyed your company the last time,”she said “and today I am needing it.” I was still trying to resist when she told me that she would be naked and promised to swing from a few branches.

The first thing that I noticed after I slowly managed to climb up to the wooden platform (the hooker’s home in the tree), was not that my back and arms were throbbing with a metallic pain that made it difficult for me to breath, but that she had shaved her pubic hair (this has always been a particular turn on of mine). The hooker was pleased to see me and sat on the side of her bed smoking a cigar. “I know it is a bad habit, but my father turned me onto the pleasures of smoking a cigar when I was young,” Dawn said holding the cigar in my direction. “Oh no, thank you,” I replied as I sat down besides her. “You know not what you are missing. There is nothing like a cigar in a redwood.” I told her about my accident yesterday (see Sitting On The Buddha’s Head) and the difficulty I was having breathing. She was flattered that despite my pain I had decided to come visit the hooker in the tree. “Would it make you happier to touch my breast,” she asked me in a maternal tone. I declined not feeling much in the mood for anything but sitting still(even though I had an erection).

We drank mint tea and watched the squirrels and birds leap from branch to branch (Dawn threw a penny at a bird!). I felt a rumbling in my stomach that spoke to me about the discomfort I was feeling. Being with a hooker without desire was like sitting in a library without a desire to read. I was confused by what I was doing there as we both silently drank our tea. “Want to see a new movement I learned the other day?” she asked with an adolescent excitement. “Sure,” I said with a hint of apathy in my tired voice. On her oval butt I noticed a tattoo of Salvador Dali (his face). I had not noticed this before and asked her if it was new. It had been there for years she told me. She hooked both her legs to a branch and hung upside down so that her long brown hair swayed in the afternoon breeze. Beneath her was at least a hundred and fifty feet of empty space. She slowly began to do a movement that caused her naked body to move backwards, slowly. So slowly in fact that it almost seemed as if she was practicing Tai Chi. Before I could register what was taking place her body was rotating quickly in circles around the branch. She looked like a windmill with tits, moving so fast that her face took on the features of a Francis Bacon painting.

I clapped at the end of her performance, for which she took a bow. “See, these are the things I learn in my loneliness,” Dawn said making her way over towards me. She asked me to kiss both of her breasts for good luck, which I did with little hesitation (her breasts smelled like cloves). She dried the sweat from her body with a green towel and lay down on her bed placing the heels of her feet on my aching legs. “That was very good,” I told her. “Are you sure that you do not want to masturbate,” Dawn asked me. When I told her that I was sure she said, “how about a slow and gentle hand job to calm your pain, or I could lick your flute with my tender lips?” she said smiling at me with a look of seduction. A small pigeon landed above the bed and sat looking down at the two of us. The hooker immediately chased it away “because they shit all over the place.” “So why do you have a tattoo of Salvador Dali on your butt?” I asked her trying to change the subject. She stood up, walked to the other side of the platform and laughed. It was at the point that I believe she resigned herself to the fact that she was going to get no money from me that day. I had no money to give.

Dawn put on tight shorts and a t-shirt with a picture of Doctor Freud’s face on it. It was obvious to me then that Dawn was well-read and cultured in a self taught kind of way. She sat back down beside me on the bed. “Because he lived a shameful life,”Dawn replied to my question. I was surprised by her response and asked her to explain why this warranted tattooing Dali’s face on her butt. “He was a deviant, he lived like one not concerned with convention, he ate black grapes from the ass holes of young girls and claimed to masturbate and orgasm into a fig twice a day.” I was still confused as to why these biographical details would inspire Dawn to put a tattoo of Dali’s face on her butt. “Are not we shameful as well?” she then asked me. “What do you mean?” I replied. “Well I spend most of my time fucking or sucking off men in my tree fort and you, you like to watch naked girls get off while you get hand jobs or play with your pecker…..and your married!!” “I do not see this as shameful,” I replied trying hard to deny my true feelings. “Well, in America, this is not normal behavior and I would say that we are both leading the shameful life of Salvador Dali.”

Surprisingly I was not bothered by this assertion. In some strange way it felt good to be compared to Salvador Dali. I felt a respite from my pain and a comfortable sense of satisfaction that I was living a lifestyle that was shared by men such as Dali. This thought seemed to make me proud of the lifestyle I was living. I was walking in the footsteps of giants, icons and some how this thought eased my pain. For years I had known that greatness required certain sacrifices. The creative genius has to go beyond the conventional, the moral- in order to gain a unique experience that they can then create from. I had always known this- but somehow the comparison to Dali set it in stone. I suddenly felt myself fill up with a lust that must be the same lust that drives all creative expression. I looked at Dawn who was staring at the sky and smoking her cigar. I asked her if she would not mind undressing, letting me play with her breasts and giving me a gracious hand job. I told her that I was feeling shameful about my request but the shame made me want it even more. Sitting up like an excited nymph she told me that it would cost me $40.00 (which she claimed to so badly need) and I asked her if I could give her an IOU.

Search Engine Madness

I have always been highly entertained by the SEARCH ENGINE TERMS that direct a person to this blog. I thought I would share this strange form of poetry:

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Eddie Vedder still lives in Seattle	2
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when i smoke weed my arm and leg go numb	1
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eddie vedder singing lesson

Sex Life Of A Man Without One #12.

Lately, I have a tendency to write and watch pornography in my sleep. I sleep walk as well, but writing and watching pornography, all while I am sleeping is new to me. Last night I composed my latest blog entry,Dream Time- while asleep. Reading it today I was a bit confused as to how it got on my site- but then I recalled that when I awoke this morning I found my computer on, and my WordPress blog on my computer screen. This allowed me to conclude that I must have been writing in my sleep. Dream Time is not the kind of entry that I would normally write and it does indeed reflect the dreaming mind of a man who is asleep.

I am no stranger to doing things in my sleep. Those of you who have read my earlier blog entries are aware that while sleeping I have rang my neighbors doorbell early in the morning while in the nude, driven my car in the nude, taken showers and tried to have sex with my wife. The other evening she found me asleep and naked with an unmistakable erection- watching pornography on my computer. I was unaware of the fact that I was aroused but remember dreaming about the sexual interactions that were taking place on my computer screen. It was like a wet dream but I did not have the opportunity to cum. My wife woke me up with a pronounced “hey!!!” and a forceful nudge to my left shoulder. I was stupefied to find myself in the nude stretched out on my desk chair watching a women with a pony tail, wearing pantyhose- spitting recently swallowed semen out of her mouth on my computer screen. “What is this?” my wife asked mortified by the grotesque sight before her. “I was sleeping,” was all I could say in my state of utter confusion. “This is absurd!!” she said twice while turning off my computer. I felt shame, despair and humiliation all rolled up into a small package and stuffed into my mouth.

And now the blog entry written in my sleep. This is a strange occurrence. I am not normally concerned by the things that I do while sleeping, but I would like to keep writing to my waking hours. When I am sleeping I do not consider myself to be as good of a writer as I have the potential of being while awake. I may write things that should not be mentioned or incriminate myself in ways that only come out while unconscious. This is all very concerning. I have read Dream Time a dozen times today and am startled by the clarity of images and the strength of the narrators voice, who is a man asleep!! So starting this evening, I will take my computer and put it someplace that would be difficult for a sleep walker to find. I am also going to install a combination lock on my bedroom door because it is impossible for a sleep walker to remember numbers. My wife will not approve, she will say that it is a fire hazard- but how much longer can this madness continue?

Absurdistry Reconsidered.

LET THE IMMORALITY PLAY ROAR ONWARDS!! BASED UPON THE QUALITY OF A FEW OF THE COMMENTS THAT I HAVE RECEIVED, MY ARM HAS BEEN TWISTED AND I HAVE DECIDED TO REMAIN ON THE AIR PERPETUATING DEGENERATE AND PERVERTED TALES OF SEXUAL DYSFUNCTION/ADVENTURE AND ANIMATED PERSPECTIVES ON TIME AND SPACE WHICH SEEKS TO SLOW DOWN THE RAMBLING VOICE IN MY HEAD. I KNOW MANY MAY HAVE BEEN HAPPY TO SEE THE IMMORALIST GO AWAY BUT ONWARDS I GO, ONE FOOTSTEP AT A TIME….WITHOUT A CONCERN ABOUT WHERE I AM HEADING. THANK YOU TO THOSE FEW, WHO RE-KINDLED THE LIGHT IN AN ALMOST DARK ROOM.

The Disappearing Tennis Ball.

Why she wore a g-string, I will never know. I did not ask. She did not tell. Rachael is a good friend of my wife and she had a longing to play tennis. The weather was cold enough to freeze the cat’s water, but she did not care. A shot of whiskey and I’d be roaring to go. We played on the only grass court in town. I could feel the frozen grass beneath my feet. The day was ominous and Rachael seemed to be wearing the shortest tennis skirt made in America. I do not even think the skirt was for tennis. Her legs were long and brown in mid-winter. I found myself longing for the platitudes that Rachael’s bare legs and g-string aroused in me. I wanted her in the same way that I wanted food after a ten day fast. Her nipples were hardened by the cold and my eye had a hardened time staying away from them. The yellow tennis ball was the least of my interest- and her soft, silky voice gave birth to a lust in me that not even lying down in frozen grass could quell.

Rachael hit me a backhand and ran to the net. Her white skirt pirouetted in the slight breeze as I watched her brown long legs rumble toward the net. I mustered enough attention to follow the yellow tennis ball and return to her a lob so high that it would take years for it to return to the ground. My eyes immediately returned to her nipples as she stood prepared to return the lob with the full force of her nature. Her head was cocked back toward the starry heavens, as she waited with a racket slung back over her left shoulder. She waited and waited, and after a minute our so she looked directly at me and said “hey where did the tennis ball go?” I had been distracted away from time and space until that moment when I realized something very strange was taking place. I looked up into the heavens, searched around for a little yellow tennis ball and then looked back at Rachael who was standing beside the net, dumbfounded. “I have no idea,” I said with a shrug of the shoulders. We looked around the perimeter of the tennis court to see if the tennis ball may have landed some place else, but saw no sign of a yellow ball. “That is the strangest thing I have ever seen,” Rachael said as we sat down on a bench on the side of the tennis court. “That tennis ball vanished in mid-air,” she said with a bewildered and slightly scared look upon her face. I could think of nothing more clever to say than, “I guess God needed a tennis ball.” She looked at me and giggled and it was then that we decided it would be a good time to return home. My wife was making sandwiches for dinner.

Working With The Dead, Part 1

The first dead body I picked up was a fat man lying on the floor in his underwear in a motel room, in which he seemed to be living. A few days ago I received a phone call from a friend of a friend. “Hey, this is Fransisco, I hear you need a job.” “I do,” I said. “Well I own a mortuary and I need someone to pick up stiffs.” I had never seen a dead body before and thought, why not…it would be an interesting experience. I started later that day. Fransisco gave me the keys to a blue mini van without rear windows and a solid handshake welcoming me aboard.

“The first thing I want you to do in the morning is come into the refrigerator and mop up all the goo,” Fransisco said. He took me into the refrigerator where the dead bodies were stored until they were buried or cremated. I saw stacks of bodies under white sheets with feet sticking out. Most of the feet were black. “Overnight they ooze and the stuff is stinky, so we got to get it up first thing in the morning.” “What do they ooze?” I asked. “They are roting, so their fat slowly falls off. It is usually the ones who ate a lot of meat and drank a lot of liquor that ooze the most,” Fransisco replied. He then showed me where the boxes were kept to put the “stiffs” in after I picked them up. He showed me how to label the boxes and where to place them in the fridge. “You okay with all this?” Fransisco asked me.

When I walked into the mortuary on my first day, there was a handsome man in his mid thirties lying nude on a stretcher. He had long hair and a woven hemp bracelet around his ankle. He looked as if he was in perfect physical condition, a hippie in the prime of his youth. The only disturbing thing was that he was dead. “What did he die of?” I asked Fransisco. “AIDS,” Fransisco replied while lighting some incense which was always burning in the mortuary. I had never imagined that someone could die of AIDS yet look so healthy. While I was staring at the body I was introduced to a lady with long black hair and a face that reminded me of Aphrodite. She wore a short mini skirt, and when she bent over to collect ash from the cremation machine- I noticed she was wearing a garter belt. Fransisco told me that she was finishing Mortician’s college, working as his assistant and that he was fucking her on a regular basis. It was more information than I needed, but Fransisco was an ego maniac and a sex addict who liked to brag about his conquests.

Bruce, who was training me that day, did not know how we could get the fat man onto the gurney. I had no clue either. This was the first dead person I had ever laid hands upon and I was hesitant. “Just grab the ankles,” Bruce said as a police officer who was on the scene helped us to lift the fat man up. The lady across the hall was crying and kept repeating that “he was such a nice man.” I could not help but notice that his motel room was filled with picture of Bob Dylan and Samuel Beckett. Once Bruce and myself finally got the fat man into the mini van we drove to Summit Hospital to pick up a second body. On the way to the hospital Bruce talked about his love for cocaine and prostitutes. He was a certified Mortician who was in his mid forties and lived with his mother due to financial problems. “There is a street near here where on a break, if the van is empty, you can pick up a prostitute and have a quicky,” Bruce said with a look that showed he meant what he was saying.

On the way to the hospital we got a call from Fransisco that we had to first go pick up a body on the corner of Claremont and College Ave that had been run over by a cement roller. “A cement roller?” I said. “Just your luck man, on your first day you get to see blood,” Bruce said with a giggle. I was apprehensive. Deep down I did not know if this was going to be the job for me. Seeing death so up close instilled a fear in my bones that I knew I would never be able to set free.

The scene at the accident was not as gruesome as we expected. The woman who was run over by a cement roller was not flattened out as one would imagine. She was badly bruised and battered but otherwise- everything on her body was in its right place. We were told that she was a local Architect who was walking to get into her car when the cement roller came around a corner too quickly and ran her over as she was getting into the drivers seat. We stuck the body which was nicely dressed in a modern black suit- into a white body bag, lifted her up onto the gurney and then placed her in the mini van besides the fat man. I also took her black leather suitcase which I found beside the trunk of her car.

With two dead bodies in the back of the van, Bruce decided that we should stop and have lunch. I was not feeling hungry but I had a beer while he ate a burrito. We talked about the job and he let me know that it got easier as the days went by. He also told me that Fransisco was the craziest man I would ever come across. When we arrived back at the mortuary Fransisco was waiting for us besides the back door through which we took the dead bodies. While smoking a joint, Fransisco showed me how to stick the bodies in cardboard boxes and then load them into the refrigerator. I wrote both their names on the side of the boxes and then we stacked the Architect and the fat man together in the fridge. Fransisco then handed me a mop and said “Here kid…it’s starting to stink in here.” It was only 12:30 p.m.

High School Teachers Don’t Get Offices!

I can not find a job teaching. They fear me. They abhor me- I have a reputation. For four years I have taught high school English in an inner city school with all poor black students. It was the hardest job I ever loved but my disappointment grew to epic proportions when The Department Of Education shut the high school down. They did not want to spend the money on poor black kids getting an education (they rather put them in jail). They also wanted to stop dangerous Teachers such as myself from teaching.

The department Of Education knew that I was teaching my students about exploitation and oppression in our society. They knew I taught about racism and white male supremacy. They could not understand why I taught the things I did when I should be teaching The Great Gatsby. The school received several notices from The Department Of Education about my teaching style and as a result the school administration started to monitor my classroom closely. One afternoon I was caught by a school administrator observing the black breasts of one of my students. I was also caught once dancing in a bathroom with a bunch of my students. The final break was when I was caught with a black princess on my lap while in the middle of teaching a class.

I loved my students and they loved me. It was not my fault that one of my female students was always insisting upon showing me her breasts, without my permission. It was not my fault that a black princess enjoyed sitting in my lap every so often. She even once told me that she “enjoyed feeling me harden up beneath her black buttocks.” I agree that I was passive about what was going on. I knew that these students faced every hardship that a student could face. They were poor, black and the educational system barely cared five cents about their future. I repeatedly taught them about the importance of them asserting themselves and getting the best possible education that they could- or else they would end up victims of a racist society. The sexual play, the dancing…these where all deeply ingrained ways of connecting with my class.

When one of the administrators caught me looking at one of my students breasts she immediately called me into her office. I was told to sit in front of the administration and answer various questions. I told them that the student enjoyed showing me her breasts and there was little I could do about it. They asked me if she had ever touched my penis and I told them never. They wanted to know about the black princess who always sat on my lap, and I told them that nothing was going on between us. I then asked why high school Teachers never get offices? and they looked at me with blank stares. “A lot of this could be avoided if I had my own office. But instead my office is in the classroom and students have more access to me this way,” I tried to explain. What I wanted to really say was that I would have more privacy to do wanted I wanted to do if I had my own space to do it in. One of the administrators knew that I meant this, looked at me and said, “high school Teachers don’t get offices…they get classrooms.”

The black princess asked me one day if she could get an A in exchange for giving me a blow job. I did have to think about it for a minute but was able to refrain. She sat on my lap until I agreed to give her an A anyways. Another student with long red braids started coming up to my desk and sticking her tongue in my ear. She would whisper things like “you so fine Mr S,” or “My tongue in your ear feels so good.” I would let her rummage around in my eardrum for a bit and then begin lecturing on Malcolm X or Aristotle’s notion of tragedy. The students enjoyed the comedy of our classroom, because it was a break from the misery of their impoverished lives.

I believe that one of the reasons that the school was shut down was because of me. Word got back to The Department Of Education about what was going on in my classroom, and overtime they decided that the school administration was not doing enough to “change my ways.” I spoke in front of the Department Of Education at one of the hearings and told them that standardized education creates mediocre students who are trained to be workers in the corporate work force. I am not interested in creating workers, I want to facilitate conversations that will allow my students to receive a quality education. One of the members of The Department Of Education asked me “Do these conversations entail conversations about sex?” The only answer I could think of was an affirmational “of course!”

I miss the African princess, the breast flasher and the tongue licker- but I don’t miss the administration. Administrators are like parasites, they suck the blood from those who are trying to grow. Because of my reputation in the education community finding a job has been more difficult than finding gold. My Resume is turned down as quickly as it is seen and I never receive phone calls back. The students in all the high school’s know about me as “Mr S, the Teacher who tells it like it is…and tries to get some booty while he is at it.” In reality I am just trying to have a good time in a world that has become so series. And besides, maybe I will retire from the Teaching business for good. High school Teachers don’t even get their own offices, are underpaid and under appreciated. Why go back? Today I have an interview as a Waiter at a local restaurant. Who knows, maybe it would be good to start a new career.

The Sniffling Whore.

 As I grow older my memory seems to constantly be letting me down.  Just today I had an experience which I am already starting to forget. Strange how this happens- all while we are awake. Slowly time just seems to disappear. I guess this is why I write. To remember. I want to have stories to tell my children when they are salivating in their cribs. If I don’t write it will all vanish like a cloud of dust.

Again this morning, I found myself out of work and bored. I just received an unemployment check so I had a few bucks to blow. I went and studied with my meditation teacher for an hour or so and then returned home. As I was driving my car which is like an old man with one leg, I saw out of the corner of my eye a very attractive prostitute walking down the street. I was not feeling particularly horny, but something deep in my gut told me that I should pull over and see if she was in her hour of need. On my radio I was listening to Some Kind Of Blue. The rain was coming down in puddles and I thought that picking her up was the least that I could do to compensate for all my sins.

I did quick u-turn and drove past her at a slow pace. I waved and directed with my aging hand that she should meet me around the corner. I was still a distance away from her, but from what I could see she looked untethered by the life of a whore. She was wearing a short black skirt and a tight t-shirt that said Oakland, California on it. I guess she would never get lost.

I pulled my car into a tight spot on a small tree lined street. I unlocked my passenger side door so she could climb in. The moment she did so- I noticed her nose was bright red and her nostrils were flooded with mucous. I know it is all part of being human but I was instantly turned off. “How are you doin baby?” she said with a glib look upon her face and used tissues in the palm of her hands. Her voice sounded like chirping birds and I could smell the cinnamon in her mouth. “I am fine,” I said looking at her legs which showed some restraint when it came to eating lots of fatty foods. “What you looking for,” she said leaving out the are. For a moment I considered maybe asking for a quick hand job, but my degeneracy was not showing up. She kept sniffling and blowing her nose, and frankly it was taking the lust out of prostitution. She looked at me with a guilty face and said, “I know, I am the sniffling whore.”

I could not help but let out a deep laugh. I appreciated her humor and felt that she was intelligent enough to satirize herself. She laughed as well and then asked me if she could smoke in my car. We both understood that nothing kinky was going to take place at that point. “Can I give you a ride some place?” I asked. “It’s freezing cold outside you know?” she said while lighting her cigarette. “I do,” I replied. “Well if you would not mind giving me a ride downtown to the bus station, I would appreciate that.” The bus station was only a few miles away and I asked her if she was leaving town. “No,” she said, “it is just a place I can sit and get warm and let the sniffling in my nose dry out. You know having a sniffling nose ain’t good for my business.” I laughed again and told her that I thought its got to be rough having a cold and being a whore. “It could be worse,” she said. I asked her if I could bum a cigarette and I turned the heat up for her. We drove toward the bus station and on the way she said “you sure I can’t give you a blow job while you drive?” I was sure.

This is why I write. It is moments like these that I never want to forget. I want to tell these stories to my children and have them in my mind for days when I am stuck in bed. Even though my memory seems to be fading away with each passing day, the experiences of my life can be preserved by the immortality of words. The one thing that time can not defy, is the power words.