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Transcript:  Unknown -- Better Left Unsaid or Undone?

11/29/2014

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While cleaning my bedroom I stumbled across an old portable recorder.  The microcassette inside wasn't blank, though the quality had deteriorated some.  The voice sounded vaguely like mine, the recording more akin to a sluggish acid recollection than me.  Still, despite the molasses speed of the distorted mush the vocals remained clear enough to catch coherent bits.  Unfortunately the tape didn't have a date, and the recording itself contained no hint as to when this rant got captured.  However, based on certain statements such as, "No knives on this expedition." -- I feel safe assuming an approximate date circa 2009 or '11.  But what the expedition was I can't say."Feels like the first stage of death... if that is the case, if I am dying, it's necessary to let everybody know don't touch my stuff, bury me with it.  Bury me deep, deep in the ground because I'll be coming back, possibly to kill you all."

At first I thought perhaps this might be a series of story notes, a monologue done in character, but it soon became clear I may actually have been recording some hallucinatory event, my own personal zombie Dr. Strangelove apocalypse brought on by god knows what.  All that I can be certain of is I began to experience "a growing numbness I can't get comfortable with.  It doesn't match the particulars of anything I'm used to enjoying... am I too tight?  Am I too loose?  Is it possible to be both at the same time?"  Chemically induced or not, the sound of my voice suggests that the events which followed appeared all too real.  

As the recording continues I describe some type of feral people rioting in the streets.  They're devouring the city; demolishing buildings by raping the bricks right off the walls.  No one is safe.  Fires burn everywhere.  Blood runs in the gutters, and children paint their faces after coating their fingers in these greasy rivers.  Naked groups of modern primitives surge through the streets forcing others down onto the sidewalk, and branding them.  Those so marked are soon descended upon by human locusts who strip the screaming pedestrians down to the bone.  The primitives then return to collect the bones, etching them with mystical runes then wearing them as jewelry or hollowing out femurs and ulna to use as pipes.  Mad men with Mohawks sport three piece suits and filed down teeth as they rocket about on homemade motorcycles of dubious quality but definite monstrous sound -- the machines roar like dinosaurs yet seem ready to fly apart.  I find a .357 magnum in the glove compartment, and start to feel safe because now I can kill myself at a moment's notice.  Still, I maintain a certain documentarian slant.  Instead of fleeing the scene I record: 

"Jesus, what are these people?  They're everywhere... flooding onto the highway, congesting traffic to a standstill.  There's no getting away from them -- no escape... we may have to go nuclear."

For a brief moment while listening to this, I indulge an oddly hope filled part of my mind, and start doing research to see if at any time in the recent past Chicago went through a stretch of temporary mass insanity.  Alas, no such luck.  The reality I recorded appears to have existed nowhere except for my mind.  A shame in a way, or so it seems until the record shares with me my realization there is no hope.  The crazies rule the city leaving only one grim option:  "A handgun in one hand, a grenade in the other, and a cigarette clenched tightly between my teeth.  Burn it down.  Burn it all away."  

At which point I can imagine myself pulling into a gas station, in fact hear background sounds suggesting as much during a pause in the rambling monologue.  The clunk-rattle-clatter of a gas pump nozzle being pulled free.  The hollow splashing noise one expects from a plastic jug filling with liquid.  The low hum of the highway in the distance implies a station not far from my house.  Like bits of a blackout resurfacing, a foggy memory returns to me, as I recall staring down two Mexican teenagers, one with a tattoo on his face of a crying skull, both of them obviously harder than me yet still somehow unnerved.  If the recollection is to be trusted, perhaps they're unease stemmed from the fact I have no shirt on though it's a chilly November evening; and I'm slicing a large dripping red X across my chest with a broken bottle.  

On the cassette a car door closes.  The tape plays an engine grumbling to life.  Indistinct mutterings follow, the decayed tape infrequently confessing in coherent bits the rest of the night:  

"Guns.  Bombs.  Liquor.  Drugs.  Sex.  Rock 'n' roll.  They're all outdated and useless.  We need bigger guns.  Bigger booze.  Bigger sex.  Bigger Rock 'n' roll.  Bigger, bigger, bigger bombs...  Carpet bombing.  What I'm proposing is... flying across, around, up, down, diagonally across the planet just carpet bombing."

Some music in the background, but I can't make it out, played too loud to be anything other than barking static.  The volume drops.  The rant continues:

"It's a curse to realize the edge is in fact behind you; it's only a matter of time before the Wiley Coyote realization gravity exists, and is still in full effect.  Though for the time being the revelation carries a blessing:  I will be less than legally responsible for whatever I do... ready to set things on fire."

Then that's it.  All I wrote, or spoke as it were.  Whatever happened afterward, either I didn't feel the need to document it, or I failed to realize the tape needed to be turned over.  In any event, I have no idea where the night went from there.  Though maybe it's better not to know.  Maybe I burned something down.  Maybe I did nothing at all.  It's hard to say which is worse.  On the one hand is arson, while on the other is someone who didn't follow through.

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National Christmas Kick-off Day 2014 aka Thanksgiving 2014

11/22/2014

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Peeking inside the oven it's clear Mom put the turkey in before the bird died.  The look on it's now crispy face is haunting, too akin to The Scream.  Mom comes in humming a tune, and the smile on her face is glowing.  It would be a sin to extinguish her expression by suggesting she put the turkey through agony.  Besides, given her mental temperament, I doubt she knew.

Beaming she says, "I put that bird in still flapping." -- winking she adds -- "He had it coming."

Another hope dies.  I say, "I'm sure he did."

"He told Marianne Heart I've been putting poison in dog treats, and leaving them around town."

Finding a tallboy in the fridge I crack it open, drain it for fifteen seconds as I remember Marianne Heart has been dead for seven years.  Still, Mom looks delighted.  Rare joy is too much of a sin to crush, and I don't really think I should be taking on more spiritual debt these days.  Although, I suppose I could just go full on atheist... maybe next year.

National Christmas Kick-off Day, known to others as Thanksgiving, is here again.  The day promises to be long, yet somehow all too short.  Dad is already sharpening knives in case anyone decides to rail on about Native Americans.  As he puts it, "Anybody wants them to have their land back, should give 'em their house."  My brother arrived early this morning to set up a perimeter defense.  Machine guns attached to motion sensors, disarmed by remote control -- he wants to be able to eat dinner in peace without worry of a sudden zombie apocalypse.  Previous years I've argued with him this may not be a legitimate concern; however this time I've decided to let it slide.  Just keep drinking till it sounds reasonable.  His kids are here to help, and if nothing else, he's giving them a solid start in electrical engineering.  

Aunt Beam won't be coming this year.  Seems Cousin Myra got abducted by a white slave ring.  According to Aunt Beam:  "They've been trying to give her back, all apologies for the inconvenience, but she refuses to leave.  You know I'm pretty sure I've told her she wasn't pretty enough to be a sex slave.  Who's the fool now?"  So Aunt Beam is spending N.C.K.D. trying to berate Myra out of a storage unit in Libertyville, the whole complex some kind of brothel.  

When Uncle Jordan arrives I can hear Dad greeting him warmly.  The oddity of this demands immediate investigation, and sure enough I find the two petting a bottle of 15 year old Redbreast whiskey.  Then the label slips.  Dad inspects it closely.  Seems Uncle Jordan glued a fake label over a bottle of Hobo Amber, a ten dollar bourbon more commonly used as an oven cleaner than a beverage.  

Trying to pass the deception off as a joke Uncle Jordan shrugs, "Ha, ha?"

Dad smiles, shoves the bottle into Uncle Jordan's chest, "You're going to drink this whole bottle of piss.  Just you."

As Dad storms off, his disappointment so black it warps the light around him, I whisper to Uncle Jordan, "No worries.  Pass me a glass or two, and I'll help kill the bottle."

Grimacing Uncle Jordan remarks, "I've heard some vets use it as a euthanasia agent."

"Then we ought to get plenty twisted.  Where's Will?"

Uncle Jordan shakes his head, "Still missing.  The police say they found his shoe inside a John Doe floater pulled out of Lake Michigan, but no leads."

Patting him on the shoulder I assure him my cousin, his son, will turn up.  Smiling weakly Uncle Jordan changes the subject to his new Realdoll.  The topics causes me to start guzzling Hobo Amber until I can concoct a reason to leave.  Escaping to the garage, I chug on a cigarette  as the bourbon melts the synapses shaping images of gap mouthed silicone sirens with blank expressions shambling along, their gel sac buttocks giggling as their nipples cycle through all the available options like areolas hell bent on inducing epileptic seizures; a legion of sex aids like lobotomized slaves bought by lonely people desperate for a connection but for whatever reason, not to anything human.  Before the scene solidifies entirely the booze brings in a gentle calm of broken thoughts, nothing lingering long enough to inspire feelings one way or another.  

Back inside Mom is singing parallel with the radio, using the melody in conjunction with her own lyrics as she grinds a private coat of sugar, Clozapine, and Oxycodone for her margarita glass.  Waving to the wall she sings:

"Closing up, it's never told

Accept without a question

Shoulder to boulder pushing love

Over a cliff in one shove

Dead end destination 

Be good to yourself when

Nobody else will..."

Well put, as usual.

We sit down to the meal, and Dad offers the usual prayer.  The words always change, but no matter so long as the sentiment remains the same.  Lord... life could be a lot worse... thanks for whatever happiness we think we have... amen.  

Mom asks if she can cut the turkey, not necessarily carve just slit the bugger's throat real quick.  She isn't entirely certain roasting the bird emphasized her contempt for it enough.  Dad agrees, and Mom giggling whispers in a golden brown ear:

"You got what you deserve." -- slice!

Then demurely she hands the knife over to Dad who disassembles the bird in what could only be described as cutlery ballet.  Deft turns of the wrist excise steamy portions of dripping wet meat.  Dad serves everyone except Uncle Jordan.  Stabbing the knife into the table Dad states, "You want some.  Get it yourself."

"I will!"  

Uncle Jordan, half of his blood now Hobo Amber snatches up the blade, and somehow manages to cut off his thumb.  It takes a minute for the fact to register, but when it does he starts screaming.  

Dad grabs him by the shirt front, throws him aside growling, "Don't bleed on the goddamn turkey.  Idiot."

My brother runs in to assess the situation.  He and his family have taken position at the front window, sending the kids for food as he keeps an eye on the perimeter.  The machine guns out front keep going off, chasing squirrels, and inspiring dread in my brother who fears even as he hopes each firing is a sign of the undead apocalypse.  Seeing that Uncle Jordan is simply in pain, that there are no zombies, my brother sullenly returns to the window.

"Pass the rolls please,"  Mom says.  I do if for no other reason than to take my eyes off the amputated digit now allowing the mashed potatoes to offer a thumbs up.  Dad spoons out the finger, tossing it over his shoulder to Uncle Jordan.  Mom butters a roll, while I stack a Great Wall using 24 oz. bricks in blue and grey.  Sometime into my second plateful Uncle Jordan returns to the table, his thumb in a shirt front pocket and hand wrapped in a towel.

Before Dad can say anything Uncle Jordan says, "I didn't use a good towel."

Dad shrugs.  I sneak a shot of Hobo Amber.  Uncle Jordan eats, nodding in delight.

"This is good," he says.

Mom smiles, "Revenge always tastes good, especially when you aren't dumb enough to serve it cold.  Logic is cold.  Revenge is an act of passion.  It should come hot."

After dinner Uncle Jordan excuses himself.  He claims he'd like to stay for dessert, however, he feels it necessary to hit up the hospital regarding his thumb.  Dad lets it slide, though not without first calling Uncle Jordan a pussy.  Still, hugs go round, and soon enough it's just the three of us.

Helping Mom clear the table I hear her muttering, "All this work, and it always ends so quick.  Too quick."

"There's still dessert," I say.

"I'm not so sure," she says, yet she still brightens at the thought.  

The machine guns fire.  The sound of Uncle Jordan hollering in terror draws me to the front window.  Dad is laughing and shouting:  "I don't mind the cheapness, it was the lying." -- bullets hounding Uncle Jordan to his car.  A few shots pepper the car door as he peels out of the driveway, and I find myself almost looking forward to Giftmas, or as some might put it, Christmas. 

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Between the Lines

11/15/2014

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Haven't done a stand alone visual piece for a while, so I figured it was high time I got back to doing paintings again.  If nothing else these are a lot of fun, and making them helps steer me away from over focusing on other projects.  In any event, here is BETWEEN THE LINES. 
Picture
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Never Fails

11/7/2014

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Cleaning the carved skulls hung over the bar is simple enough.  A few blasts from a bottle of computer cleaner spray is all it takes, but there's something about staring into those empty sockets.  I always find myself thinking one day Mitch is going to carve my skull, probably with etchings of some big titty fantasy chick, and hang it right above the whiskey.  It'll be a tasteful nude, skillfully rendered to the point she seems almost alive.  As long as it looks cool I won't mind.  Dead folks got more important things to complain about such as being dead.Afterwards I walk the bar popping fresh beers for whoever needs 'em, and topping off shots for the world weary.  At the end of the row is old Wallace.  He looks at me with his two colored eyes -- one blue, the other green -- and half-smirks.

He says, "My wife programmed Sirhan Sirhan, but that bitch can't make me do the dishes."

I refresh his vodka rocks on the house.  Gotta admire a man with resistance, whether it's to reality or brainwashing.  

Sticks Sullivan and Ottis Duchamp saunter in a predictable hour late.  Instead of asking for one of their moldy excuses I just inquire as to drinks.  Neither of the two ever swallow the same booze twice.  Singapore Sling for Sticks and though at first Ottis can't decide between a Grovschpol Cocktail or a Melon Splash, he eventually settles on both.  The two mutter some kind of unintelligible cheers before making their way to the band stand.  I always wish I could make it out, a voodoo luck chant Duchamp's aunt taught him, though I can't really say what kind of luck it's ever bought the two.

I call out, "Where's Dodger?"

Without looking at me Sticks says, "Dodger is dodging a warrant.  Ain't gonna see him for a while."

Ottis adds, "Fucked a cop's wife, so the angry pig pinned some bullshit on him."

Sticks sez, "Damn fool would only do a month, but the junkie bitch that he is he's worried about getting clean by accident."  

I say, "That might be for the best."

Ottis says, "Health wise maybe, but it's his guitar playing he's worried about.  Says he's in a balanced whatchamuhcallit, state of mind or something.  He said something specific" -- snaps his fingers to spark his memory, eventually decides to hell with recollection and just says -- "He's in the zone.  Hell, that man needs to learn to be more casual with his dope, ya feel me?"

The two get the drums and piano set up, and as Ottis loosens his fingers with a light dance across the ivory Sticks warms himself with a bit of tap-tap-tappity-tap.  Not long after they get cooking like they're playing for a packed house of doe eyed ladies, and savvy aficionados. Even with Dodger the band is no Deland Moran and the Vista Cruiser Honky Tonk, but they do.  Better than the goddamn jukebox thumping out gibberish.  At least people can still talk to one another, though no one in here has much to say.  Tuesday nights are for pro drinkers practicing for the weekend bender.  

Without fail, near a half hour into the set, Ottis's ex-wife, Sherry, slips in through the side door.  She sneaks into a shadowy booth, sitting with her back to the band stand, so there isn't a chance Ottis can see her.  She holds up three fingers, and I know what to bring her.  I pour a shot of Mescal, fix up a dirty martini with blue cheese olives, the olives kept in a special box just for her, then collect a joint Mitch leaves in a Tibetan skull by the gin.  He rolls this one special for her.  I've got no idea what's in it, but the clouds she exhales twist into panoramic vistas like windows into other worlds.   I set all three in front of her lined up in a row.  She thanks me with her throaty coffee voice, and tips me with a wink of her smolder eyes.  Pam Grier wishes she ever looked this good.

I ask her if there's anything else she needs.

She bobs her head, "A little company would be nice."

This is a first.  She gestures, so I slide into the opposite side.

Sticks starts cha-chinging a fresh tune.  Never heard this one before, far as I can tell.

Sherry says, "How you been Danny boy?"

"Enduring."

She smiles, and I can't tell if she's flashing fangs or being foxy.  Either way, I turn down her offer of weed -- kindly.  Seems safer to stay grounded.  Though the view through the window is a black and white forest out of a fairy tale; trees grown into a thick tangle letting only a few eerie shafts of light brave their way to the forest floor, the shadows populated by peering eyes, some predatory others curious, and a few fearful, though there's no way to tell if any of the gazers are human, or animal, or other...

"Sorry.  What did you say?  I was somewhere else."

She cocks an eyebrow, "Heard you and Lisa split up."

I wave it off, "That's old news.  She left months ago."

"You over it?"

"As over it as anyone could be.  She was one of a kind."

Sherry chuckles, "It's a wonder you held onto her as long as you did."

"Luck of the Irish."

She licks her thumb and forefinger, snuffs out of the joint half way through then tucks the remnants in her purse.  Eying me over her martini she says, "It was more than that.  You were good to her, but she was a gypsy at heart.  No one can hold onto that girl.  But because you understand a man should appreciate when he's got something special I've got a proposition for you."

I throw out a little Triumph, "Lay it on the line."

Sherry grins, "Well, I don't want to waste your time, so here's the gist.  After the show Ottis is going to need something for his nerves."

I cut in, "What's wrong with his nerves?"

"He's going to see me."

"That's it?"

"Have you looked at me in this dress?"

"I could light a cigarette off you."

"Exactly."

The tune is a jazzy number, much more upbeat than the usual gloom Sticks and Duchamp feed the room.  I like it.  At one point I think I hear a trumpet, though there's no trumpet player.

Waving a hand to clear the air, drift away from the contact high, I ask, "When his nerves get jangled how's he going to calm them down?"

Sherry reaches into her purse.  She tosses a small packet of powder over.

I've known Ottis long enough to make a safe guess as to the contents.  Plus, I know who I am, or maybe should say was, who Sherry wants me to be again:  "I'm guessing that's heroin."

Sherry says, "Among other things."

Probably an assortment of cleaning powders.  

"I feel the need to ask..."

Sherry lights a cigarette, "Once upon a time Ottis got himself twisted.  I don't really know what on, but he went right out of his head.  He held me down on the pool table over there, and tried to carve 'my girl' into my stomach, only he didn't do so well, and ended up cutting a bunch of unintelligible slices -- junkie gibberish that only made sense to him."

"That's awful."  I glance at the bar because I can't keep looking into her eyes.  She's beaming a stream of daggers.

"If you don't believe me I can show you the scars."

I hold up a hand, "No need." 

"Mitch saw the whole thing."

"Why didn't he stop it?"

"Oh he did, except he was in the basement at the time, counting bottles, so he ran in to save the day just a little too late.  He popped Ottis in the mouth then while Mitch was seeing to me the rotten motherfucker ran off into the night.  Laughing."

I pick up the packet, slip it into a shirt front pocket, "I'm surprised Mitch didn't kill him."

Sherry chews on an olive, speaking between bites she says, "He wanted to -- where do you think the skulls over the bar came from? -- but I told him no.  I said I wanted to do it myself." -- out of her purse comes a mean looking revolver that she sets on the table as she continues, "I come here every time he's playing, but I can never get myself to do it."

"Murder isn't easy."

"The killing part isn't what stops me.  It's the getting caught I've got a problem with."

"Fair enough." -- I give her hand a light squeeze as I get up.

She lifts a finger against my wrist.  Her touch is enough to hold me in place while she asks, "You'll do it?"

"Come by tomorrow, and I'll let you know."

Sherry puts the gun away.  She says, "Thanks.  Either way, you're one of the good ones Danny boy."

"Thanks."

She leaves, her body throwing out hooks snagging every eye in the place.  Ottis plinks a series of sours notes, stops playing all together, and Sticks has to hiss at him to start playing again.  Mission accomplished, Sherry.  I go back to the bar.  

The rest of the evening Ottis delivers a series of ear slapping notes which after twenty minutes have him throwing up his hands, and leaving the stage.  Sticks decides to round out the set with a little impromptu jazzy solo, with any luck make it seem like nothing is wrong.  This is all part of the act.

Hanging onto an empty corner of the bar Ottis signals for me.  It isn't subtle.  I walk over, "What can I do for you?"

Ottis whispers, "Hey man, I know you said you don't do this anymore, but I was wondering if you know anybody can hook me up with some H?  I got a number from Dodger, but nobody's answering, and I need something double quick."

Folding my arms across my chest, "Maybe.  What's this all about?"

Ottis grinds his teeth, "Goddamn ex-wife just walked through here looking like the cure for limp dick.  Bitch left me for no good reason, always saying I how never apologized.  Apologize for what?  I never did anything to her... not on purpose, ya feel me?"

There's a sweaty look in his eyes that's more than dope desperation.  Have a ten year old kid clock a homerun right through the living room TV, and the same look will pop up; the eyes of someone who knows they did wrong hoping beyond reason reality isn't what it is.  

Patting him on the shoulder I say, "Ottis, today is your lucky day."  -- I pull out the packet Sherry gave me -- "This here never fails to change things." 

Though I leave out whether I mean for better or worse.

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    Author

    J. Rohr enjoys making orphans feel at home in ovens and fashioning historical re-enactments out of dead pets collected from neighbors’ backyards.

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