A Dash of Salt

Coughing all night. Keeping my girl awake; she being like, “Kum on bro, stfu…”

Here I am, being like, “Babe, if I could I would… It just keeps coming out of me. This horizontal position’s got my goat…”

“So sit up.” she says. Which leads to more computer time logged. Just looking, browsing, passing it along, filtering, channeling, distributing, judging. The pillars of culture must not be afraid to express opinions. Latch onto your voice and scratch higher through the vacuum, because when that time comes you can say, “It was me said that. And I done that. It was me thought this way, and if it was good, then I was good, and if it was bad, then I was intelligent. For it wasn’t me who sat idly by. I was kissing, driving, shooting, laughing, talking, dancing, moving. I was a shaker back then. You could see me on the stage. They gave me VIP treatment. My berries were ripe with juice.”

That’s what they’ll say about me, teenage idol, rocking it in his bedroom, which he thought was a camera, as though the audience could do more than just read; like they could lift him into the strobing lights, sweating diamonds for his following.

But even heroes must submit. Hermes is more than Achilles and Odysseus combined; smaller than Pluto, the lover-boy, mama’s son, sailing through poetry to the shores of the future, wondering how I ended up here, in this dangerous world of hoboes, and lunatics; drunks and drug addicts; beggars; muggers; the ugliest of preps; dog walkers, smelling of bad jissom; all of us inches from the dinner table, always checking in, leaving dollars, bussing and bartending, hoping to contribute to a speedy service; filling out applications for account manager positions, models, advertisement actors, dispensers, bookbinders, writers of activist literature, copy editors, journalism interns: gotta pay the rent; respect the law; feed the flesh; awaken into tomorrow.

To die is the greatest sin. Yet living lies so close to death. Awakening eternally from that. The breath of freedom which might be found in chance. The song being sung at the pitch of intuition. Stepping in to make that goal. Something else taking over: more than the meals and the inertia: a fluid sort of grace; the song of life’s script, sung in silence, with all of life’s noise making up its harmony.

Curses and their Counterparts

This cough doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. In fact it’s getting worse. I wake each morning spitting dark mucus in the sink.

Curses are usually locatable within the physical world: spirit and form work together: no separation; so, when I spot the building’s maintenance crew pulling insulation from my hallway’s ceiling I get to wondering: is it mold? Dust? What am I dealing with exactly? And can it even be dealt with? Last time I had a mold problem, I abandoned ship on the brink of crazy.

Some curses require divine intervention. And when I say ‘divine intervention’ I’m talking landlords, maintenance men, plumbers, etc: a higher power.

Musette asks me if I want to talk to the landlord.

I tell her that I don’t. But what I don’t tell her is that the reason I don’t is because he is a new landlord, a man, instead of young woman; and he’s Armenian or something, middle aged, and intimidating to me. I don’t get along well with men. My father was a man. And he was, and may still be, my arch nemesis.

I decide to take out the trash. A week ago Musette had dumped the contents of the vacuum in there. That dusty mess has been at the back of my mind for too long. The gray dirtiness lie layered over a range of slimy egg shells, withered brown limes from God only remembers the last time we had margaritas, and a dead animal slime which spreads from the scooped out foam of a ground beef carton.

It’s been all too long accumulating: a stash beneath the sink; a plague of nightmares in my subconscious; the memory of two fags poisoning my guts; a stagnation settling in beneath the paint; that musky smell which makes the whites of my eyes dribble; shaking like that cut-in ghost man, the dark figure in the living room, clinging to life long enough to murder you with a stroke, squeeze your gallbladder till it collapses in my palm. Number one sinner here, needing your prayers so damn bad! Just another phase beneath the birthmark of Cain. Bloody hands showing up in the mirror just about every other day. Opening the oven to find another bout of melted face in place of the Digiornio. Here I am shaking the cat to a ghost in my hands. I’m filming the destruction for a top spot on B.J. nash’s, Clash of the Literal Killers.

“This week we’ve got kittens being ripped apart like phone books, puppies being punted like field goals, and rodents asphyxiating beneath your quivering prostate.”

Bombs blasting all around Montmartre open my eyes to the rattling in my skull. Vibrancy crackles through the slits in my vision.

“Keep your eyes on the road.” says the undulating spirit guide.

Gotta’ keep cumming to the Champs-Elysees.

The Widening Gap

I have a twenty minute wait, holding for a representative from the community college, Musette telling me last night, “Just call them.”

It was odd, and fateful, how it was revealed to her, upon investigating the issue, that today is the day designated for those who plan on taking the smallest amount of credits to apply.

I have heard her say twice, “Maybe this isn’t the path for you.” Yet there is always enough open ground for me to continue, because, as I respond, “It is best to investigate open doors while they remain open.”

 

The wait time lowers, announcing itself as fifteen minutes, then twelve, between spans of muffled hold music. During this time I think up questions to ask, writing myself a mini, haphazard script.

The automated announcer tells me there are five minutes left. My stomach drops. I would have preferred to skip this phone call and visit the college personally; but the nearest campus is a thirty minute bus ride away, and we are already scraping the bottom of our wallets for groceries.

“You have to figure out if it is even worth it, before going down there.” Musette said.

 

The hold music doesn’t change the entire time. The instrument is a clarinet, or some other woodwind. It is meant to be calming, like a panning view of the wetlands, but the muffled crackling reminds me of standing in front of a white brick wall, staring up at a guard tower from 1982.

I am told there is one minute left. I look over my script and clear my throat. The hold music suddenly cuts out. It is replaced by a dial tone. The person who picks up is male. He says his name; I tell him mine. I recognize his voice. It is Maxwell Foxhall, not in person, but in spirit, here to meet me at this juncture of my development, just as he’d promised before painfully letting me down.

My eyes jump to the script and I start reading. I am impressed by the smooth flow with which my written words translate. I ask if there is enough time for me to catch the fall semester, and after hearing the state of my preparations he tells me that I will be lucky to make winter.

I hear his gauntlet call.

“Are you truly dedicated?” sings the song.

I hang the phone up.

 

FAFSA forms, previous education transcripts, and enrolment applications stretch an exhausting labyrinth ahead of me, separating me further from the community college, which is but the hot oil entrance into the education machination, which holds degrees, emblazoned with my name on them, and a future brighter than the one which haunts my every hour, both waking and sleeping.

Korda

I mailed the application. It had been sitting on my desk for days. A vision of future confrontation and rejection had held me back from doing it sooner.

There is a spontaneous energy required for self-motivation which is both curious to come by and ultimately natural. It requires a combination of transcendental elements, which usually coalesce through a process of many souls working together. The lone creator must be blessed with a magician’s prowess; because this chain of discipline is alchemical in nature, and often more than a single person can handle.

It is like lightning, bursting from the sky, and the artist, as skywatcher, must be quick to leap, wrangle, and wrap this flashing phenomenon. There is power within a true bolt, but many so-called artists, and artists as well, catch nothing but sky; empty, lifeless, common space. It is a game for the quick and diligent, the skilled and wise; talented masters with a zen strike wrapped in practice, reaching into the pond and catching dinner; the mad leaper, foaming at the mouth and drenched in cloud material, hopping through the sky, amped by the ions of his ambition.

There is power within the hunt; and the blood of a kill can keep a man going for days, if not months, if not his entire life, and beyond that even, through all of the rest of history. Guerrillero Heroico, the starry night, Homer’s Odyssey for the Holy Grail, Christ’s Celestial Kingdom, the hero’s journey: it is an insanity game, an exploration of our inner mythos. There are rules here, but they are strange, metaphysical. It is a perfect world for the antisocial; so private a construction site to build this bridge to everyone. A rainbow to the stars. A love affair forever. Counseling, growth, map making in real time, painting vivid masterpieces with black and white, compositions of words, thoughts, psychology, and blood.

Intervention

Musette asks me to look up low cost dental options in our area. She has chipped teeth or a mouthful of cavities. I want to help her, and this is the only way I can, but I find even this to be a great challenge because all the internet provides me with is vague contact information and no guidance regarding what to do with it.

She also wants me to fill out a food-stamps application. It is an online form, which I try filling out but find the answers too specific for me to answer by myself.

I feel helpless.

‘Just another wasted day.’

Even though I am not subject to the oppression of a time clock I am not free and never have been.

There is a tyrant chasing me. It is not barred from this hidden pocket of the machine. It is smoking me out with poverty and a certain patheticism of existence, keeping me from exploding by choking pressure ‘round my soul, revealing to me that I have only burrowed deeper, my vision being arrested around the trappings of a decent meal.

A certain vision of myself, which I long to translate into reality, lives within me, blowing its cover behind the windows of dreams, constantly airing its perfection, like a film behind my consciousness. It is like an underground vein, rich in the resource behind all resources. I tap at it, mining these handfuls of breath, which, try as I might to turn into life, leave me still feeling so heavy.

Though I have prayed, asking for the gift of every man’s common sense, I remain wedged beneath a large epactal bone and an acidic pit: a white infant, and my own Moby Dick, stymied from adult successes by this other self, who doesn’t know his right from left, who laughs when he should be fighting, speaks when he should be silent, and tortures me merely by existing.

The Weird Nurse

SHINJI HIMENO (B. 1966 TOKUSHIMA, JAPAN) – DIE KLEINE GLOCKE

I head to the dog park. Best to confront fears rather than let them linger. The gate separating the small dogs from the big dogs is busted open. This is an all-in situation. There is a slobbering boxer, a german shepherd, and this large breed mutt who looks up, hearing us enter. Like a coal walker, I puff my chest and glide to the closest bench, reminding myself to breathe as my vision becomes pixelated with panic. The dogs approach. Charleston’s body crumples as he submits. I restrain myself from getting involved, keeping a sharp eye without displaying worry.

A new ‘girl’, dressed in purple scrubs, with large sunglasses on, enters the park. She brings another large dog. She stands a few minutes in the middle of the park before scrunching up next to me on the bench, even though almost every other bench in the park is open.

She looks to be about twenty eight years old, which I realize is practically my age. One of her first questions is whether I live around her. I tell her which apartment complex I live in. She tells me she lives next to Jimmy James Square. We talk about our dogs. Hers is a mix breed. She got it from the pound. It makes me wonder how many other dogs in this arena were picked up from the pound.

So many sympathizers of lost dogs, what are they getting the rest of us into?

“What do you do for work?” she asks.

“I don’t have a job right now.” I reply.

“Living the free life, eh?” she says.

“Is there any other way to live?” I ask.

I wonder if she has seen my wedding ring.

“I work three days a week.” she says.

She’s a nurse.

“I have to have a dog walker because I work such irregular hours. Once the person working for me brought my dog here, even though I told her not to; and when I came home I found dirty paw prints all over my expensive comforter. Needless to say, she doesn’t have a job with me anymore.”

I tell her that sounds tragic, but I have to go.

“The dogs here are all too big for mine.”

We shake hands. I exit and sit on the grass outside the cage. I contemplate whether the truth is the best answer to give people. Musette told me last time we went to the bar that she hadn’t told people about my unemployment:

“Just tell them you still work at OfficeStore. It’s none of their business anyways. And besides, they wouldn’t understand…”

It was a good enough excuse for her coworkers, but the people around here frequent the OfficeStore I worked at on at least a weekly basis. I decide that a job I did while still living in Salt Lake, which involved driving gifts around to different corporations in a book fair fashion, is a good alias for the current situation because there is no fixed location for people to have missed me at, and a former truth is an easier lie to tell than a made-up one.

I rise from my meditative repose feeling redeemed of the sin injuries delivered by the nurse. Thinking that Charleston could use a bit more exercise I take him for a walk around the neighborhood. Passing Jimmy James Square I spot the nurse.

“Now that I know you I’m going to start seeing you everywhere!” she exclaims.

“I know right!?” I reply.

Cage Match

Little Jizzer runs up to me in the bathroom.

“Inspector! Inspector!” he shouts, popping up behind me in the mirror. “The woman across the hall got her dog!”

“Have you seen it yet?” I reply.

“No, but she’s been trying to tell me about it all day. I keep avoiding her, but I don’t know how long I can keep this up!”

“Stay calm. We’ll handle this together.” I say.

…

We have a good view of her apartment from the peephole; we can easily hear when she opens her door.

“She’s always spying on us this way. We’re just turning the tables on her.” I say, knowing that we cannot avoid the situation forever. “The best thing for us to do is manage the terms upon which the meeting will take place. It’s all about being in the alpha position.”

“Charleston is not a very alpha dog…” says Lil’ Jizzer.

“Then we must become the alpha dog within him.” I reply.

I hear her door open.

“She’s coming.” I say. “She’s carrying the dog in a pouch around her shoulder. It’s a little thing, chubby… nothing to be afraid of yet. But I see your concern. Best thing for us to do is to let her pass us by a few more times. We’ll use this time to build our own hearts up. Nervousness will only bring us down.”

…

I come up with a plan.

“It’s time to take him to the dog park.”

“Oh my god, no…” replies Lil’ Jizzer.

“Yes. Every pup must learn to socialize if he is to become strong.”

“But the dogs there are worse than the one across the hall.”

“Precisely. We must imbue him with our strength. I am going to ask you to embody him for us. You cannot be seen in public anyways; so your bravery will become his bravery. I’m going to need you in there giving me the play-by-play. Like I said, I won’t leave your side. I will be the leash wielder, or the Gallows Jack (as you might like to refer to the position.) But think of me mainly as your mother, or if not, then at least your protector.”

“I already do!” shouts Lil’ Jizzer. “But isn’t this a suicide mission?”

“You’re being over dramatic… and it’s unflattering. It has the potential of losing us readers. Just saddle up, and follow my lead.”

…

“I can’t control this massive amount of energy!” screams Lil’ Jizzer, having stuffed himself into Charleston’s body.

I tug at the leash.

“You rattled my brain!” he cries out.

“Don’t worry about it.” I reply. “Just concentrate on settling down.”

We step over the threshold into the outside world. The air, the vision, the lights, and the noises send Lil’ Jizzer practically eradicated beneath the animal instincts of his vessel.

“Cool it!” I shout, tugging left and right, dragging him over the tops of my shoes, scraping his coat against the sidewalk.

“Don’t you feel that!?” He asks. “In your gut!? Your nose bursting with sensation! New experiences! Adventure! The beautiful expanses of freedom! Lord in Heaven, God give me more!”

I kick him with my flip-flop in the ribs.

“Shut up and concentrate…”

“But I can’t concentrate! I am alive! The world is alive! It’s so great! There is so much going on! Everything shines! I want more!”

I drop to my knees, planting my palm into his ribs, pinning him to the floor.

“Now you listen to me bub, I’m in charge here. This is a man’s world. If it were a different time or a different place, I’d follow you without question; but this world is an abstract leviathan of machinery. It doesn’t make much sense anymore guiding life by primal thought. Critical thinking is required, and it’s what I’ve got that you’re missing. If you don’t pay attention to me you’ll be splat dead beneath a tire tread, impounded, or put to sleep. It’s not safe for you here but by my command. So settle down, and let’s do our best to concentrate.”

…

The sunshine feels like a brick in the gut. My nerves’ tingle beneath the dance of fairy feet. The people in passing become so hideously kitsch that my eyes sink. My heart hits the skids and my ass skids the row. Charleston becomes a flesh balloon, whizzing around my feet like a bumble-bee reminder ‘round my finger, being such a ball and chain to my antisociality.

We walk the sidewalk till he suddenly stumps up and starts dumping.

“Oh my God!” I yell.

“Oh papa… I don’t know…” he replies with big wet eyes which stare up into mine like a saint stuttering over the brink of euphoria.

“How do you think this makes me look!?” I ask, telling all the passer-bys not to mind me as they lift their noses in disgust.

…

I pick up the mess and we proceed to the dog park, which ominously sits, a toothed pen of energy, whizzing meat sacks, hungry for blood, through the depths of its belly. Primal resurgences flare from beneath hypnotic domestications. ‘Little Ones Steer Clear of This Place.’ says a sign posted at every entry. They always go first, the pups – it being easiest of all to eat eggs; slow, soft, tender veal, penned up and pulverised beneath vacuum wrapped hopes. Quick, deliberate, merciless predators; even the wolves allowed entrance, wrapped around the circulation of stupid kids, rich with their parents, plaid shorted, and calling themselves different sorts of philosophies.

“Do you know anywhere round here offers doggy bags?” asks one of those tight white shirt wearing, v-neck bros. “I’m all about those natural treats to give my big boy here, staring down your little chum, what type of dog is that anyways, a cocker spaniel?”

“It’s none of your damn business, but some people just shouldn’t get big dogs, you know?”

“Yea, but I ain’t one of those types. I see Bruno salivating over your pup’s flank, but the second he makes a strike I’ll yell his name and wave my arms around; if he doesn’t listen, then who’s fault is that really anyways? You bring a sweet piece of meat such as that to the pit, and what do you expect is going to happen?”

“Charlo is a brave pup, getting braver. I’m training him to stand up to a monster.”

“What breed?”

“Rottweiler and Pitbull.”

“Who would get such a brute?” asks the man.

“A paranoid, timid little woman, looking for a completely automatic weapon to protect her from everything.”

“I know the type. That’s why I got Bruno: he’s a completely trained buffer between me and those wild psychoseses. You can’t prevent everybody from manifesting their wicked realizations, the only choice you have is to master your own. But what I recommend you do, being that you’ve got such a small pup already, is pack a pistol. One bite from that beast, and you’re justified in pulling the trigger.”

“No, there’s far too much work involved in getting a pistol. Plus, I can’t trust myself with a device constructed purely for death delivery. Knives are hard enough for me to be around, but at least they slice the already dead. The only pistols I can handle are those already equipped by my imagination, and even those get me into all sorts of psychological mires. At heart my dog is me, and he’s not exactly a living weapon; he’s rather more of, if not a victim, an observer, passing through this world by the grace of God.”

“That is where you and I differ, I am also my dog, but my dog could be president if I asked him to. Are you European then?” asks the man.

“No, I’ve read a few books about Europe though.” I respond.

…

Suddenly there is a scuffle, and Charlo is crying out, yelp after yelp, with Lil’ Jizzer’s voice howling through my inner ear: “Help! Help! Help!”

A small, white chihuaha has him by the throat. I push the german shepherd of a man out of my way, and latch my grip around the bandana of the little, attacking dog, lifting him into the air, and releasing Charleston from his grip.

Charleston runs around the pen, gathering a flock of undue attention. I save him by snatching him up, leaping onto a bench, and hopping onto the the pen’s fence. The dogs all bark beneath me

“Nobody leave!” I shout. “Control your dogs!”

The crowd staggers, placing their hands on the collars of their beasts. I step down, and with undivided attention scan Charlo’s necks for punctures.

Everyone wants to know if he’s ok.

“Nobody is allowed to leave until he gets over this fright. Do you understand?”

“Yes, whatever you say potential lawsuit.” responds the crowd.

“He’s fine, there is no blood.” I say.

“That’s good.” says the owner of the little dog. “When I saw you enter the park I told my friend that I was worried because Bunksy doesn’t do so well with puppies…”

“Next time tell the person who owns the puppy, you idiot!” I say. “Bring me Bunksy.”

“What are you going to do with him?” the woman asks.

“I’m not going to hurt him.” I reply. “I am going to offer him Charleston’s butt.”

“Ok…” says the woman, presenting me with Bunksy.

…

Later, while telling Musette this story, she asks me how much of it actually happened.

“Most of the events.” I say, “Except for some of the really exciting parts. And hardly any of the dialogue. You know my voice is still locked inside of my heart and in my brain, right?”

“I know it is, my sweet, sensitive boy.” she replies.

“But your head is not in the oven.” I say.

“What about yours?” she asks.

“I still haven’t figured out where mine is.” I reply.

Deja Vu

ESSAM MAROUF

It isn’t but what feels like no time before that telephone starts shaking, beckoning me into another trial.

“Return with me to the location of last time and see how good of a time you have this time.” says the preceptor from the other side.

I am excited.

“Who will be there?” I ask.

“Saphire, Kevin, and Saphire’s fiance – Hank.”

“Not Brock?”

“Brock has been transferred.”

I am no longer as excited.

“He’s been transferred?” I say, disappointedly.

“To another location within our location.”

“Well, I’m on my way.”

I saddle myself into long pants over short pants, taking the time to shave, the sink filling up with my whiskers as I watch the hair atop my head ignite into Herculean curls.

“Perhaps a bit overconfident?” asks Lil’ Jizzer over my shoulder. “Something of a social butterfly are we now?”

“Now? Perhaps it is something forgotten within myself, reignited by the situation requiring it.”

Truth be told, I can’t stop thinking about having a cigarette between my lips.

Is that why I want Brock to be there so badly, or even Dick, with his roasted chicken taste?

I unbutton the second button of my second of two nice shirts, realizing that the only person from last time who will be there is Saphire, and I don’t care what shirt she sees me in.

What a waste… ‘Yellow India’, as I like to call it. Heroic. But easily wasted on the wrong crowd.

Last session someone made a dumb joke about cardigans, saying, “‘Pull over.’ ‘No, cardigan.’” It makes me hesitant to wear my cardigan, but I always do, and I don’t like being the person who is hesitant to do something based upon someone else’s reaction to it. So I wear it. And I find out that I am in the wrong crowd. Two of the troupe members have camo caps. One of them orders a Pabst Blue Ribbon. Saphire’s fiance, Hank, seems to be the classiest crew member at first, but turns out to be a rabble mouthed con-artist working at both Seven-Eleven and the Oregon Days fair. He has a black spot on one of his teeth. He is from Eugene. “Born and raised.” A pride I never felt living in Salt Lake.

Brother Barry Jackson is “my step brother…” says Saphire “Or my soon to be brother-in-law; I can’t remember…”

He’s red as a fire hydrant from this week’s buck hunt. And he’s got a tubby tummy, and tubby cheeks, buzzed head-do, and a grizzly lack of shaving.

‘I’m about to get raped by Hank and the rest of the crew…’ I realize.

“You want one of those, don’t you?” says Musette, looking at Hank’s Pal Mall’s. “Wait, those are gross aren’t they?”

“He only smokes certain kinds now that he’s a social smoker.” she says to the group.

What she doesn’t realize is that because I’m only a social smoker by her mandate, I’ll smoke anything she lets me.

“You want a Camel Filter?” asks Kevin.

“Oh dear God do I ever.” I reply, standing away from our non-smoking table.

This is when the boys start to get along, puffing smoke out their mouths, comparing our ink, Kevin asking me why I don’t have any, and me being like, “I’ve never been able to decide what I want first.”

“That’s the problem; there is no perfect first tattoo.” rattles Hank. “You just have to get something. This is the first one I got. Yea, it’s pretty big, but it was all done in one sitting. I think that’s not necessarily the best way to go about it, but it works. Some people spend a lot of sessions going to the tattoo artist, but I was like ‘fuck it!’ just do it all to me right now! ha ha!”

“You’ve upped the ante I see…” I say to the preceptor, who waits behind my eyes for the room to clear.

“My buddy gave me my first.” Says Kevin, rolling up his sleeve to display a shaky ankh.

“It’s beautiful.” says Hank. “Homemade tattoos just radiate originality.”

“I wish they didn’t smoke…” says Saphire. “My grandchildren’s lives depend upon it.”

“I was so proud of him for quitting…” replies Musette.

“These Camel Filters never last long enough, you know what I mean?” I say; but Kevin doesn’t get the hint.

“I’ve got two kids at home to feed.” he says. “They’re my girlfriends’. One of them’s a ginger. It’s the epitome of annoying.”

“I bet.”

His tab at the end of the night comes to four dollars.

“Do they make Pabst Blue Ribbon dark?” asks Musette.

“No, this is it, the blue ribbon winner.”

Musette and my tab comes to fifteen dollars, thanks to Thirsty Thursday.

Hank and Saphire’s tab is ridiculous. Thirty five dollars. They got food. They didn’t know the salad cost four dollars. Saphire complained about it the whole time.

“These are not heirloom tomatoes…” she said.

Hank wants to fight, but Saphire convinces him that they cannot win the argument, because she’s already seen the outcome in a deja-vu.

“Are you sure you didn’t just see yourself predicting the outcome rather than the actual outcome?” I ask.

“No, it wasn’t like that.” she says.

Dante’s Drunken Sway

Jan Parker

We are feeling it all the way home. Musette has her arm around my waist, and we’re swaying like smiling sailors. I turn to her and say, “Dang, it’s good to have you back girl…” But instead of her I find the Preceptor, stern faced, and definitely not drunk.

“Did you have fun?” he asks.

“You know what,” I reply, “I actually did.”

“That is good. You did well.”

“Thank you. Where is Musette?”

“You mean her?”

He points at a little girl, limping ahead of us, dressed in tattered garb, dirty as a rat, and thin as twigs.

“Who is that?”

“Death.”

“I have been looking for her! She is the object of my obsession; the subject of my investigation!”

“I know, and she will find you. But if you want to find her first, you must search within the deepest realms of life.”

“Can you lead me?”

“Yes.” replies The Preceptor, resuming the form of Musette. “We are already on the way.”

Upper Echelons of Acceptance

This time it’s me prying back the skin, letting in the air of the outside world, sending a breeze through those charred flaps of memory, a breath through the overcooked thoughts, depleting stagnation with a popping hiss. One step followed by another up a shrinking stairway. Little Jizzer following tremulously behind. A cell phone shaped door buzzes, lighting up, being the gateway between my self-containment and the dangerous freshness which makes up a new experience. The world taking over again, as I release the controls from my conscious mind. ‘Progress’ and ‘Proceed’ are the only conditions. The Master whispering through the breath of wheezing in. A haunting in the attic underway. That sound you hear in the ceiling is my chicken scratch scrawl. Step by step towards the door. Vision alighted by a ringtone. My world shaking in your pocket.

“The jury of your peers awaits you.” says the voice, coded in normalcy. “Meet us at the Prancing Pony.”

Through the door, into the rafter thatched streets. A porter, standing next to a smoke breaking pump jockey and an off the clock elevator operator, glares at me from behind a pair of aviator sunglasses. He congratulates me on my continuation of the hero’s journey.

“Are you sure you’re making the right move here?” asks Lil’ Jizzer. “Do you think it may be wiser to just stay home?”

“Life can only take care of those who embrace it.” I respond.