Tuesday, December 2, 2014

the Day of The Sp ce Yard

I remember that the day felt warmer than it actually was.  I was hungover and I wanted salt, brine, pickles olives or something except I walked.  I walked and there are no groceries footnear to Rachel & Eric's so I went to a Shopko on Hwy 2 that had no olives.  They did have potato chips which would sate what I wanted partially so I brought potato chips to the party; chives & cheddar.

I already felt better just by being there.  Something about the neighborhood brings a cooling effect.  It might be the trees or the nearby grade school which always reminds me of the cool season.  Zachary Schomburg was there and we exchanged words such as 'excuse me' and 'were you in line  ahead of me?  No well alright."  Bandito gave me a hit of acid and I drank more beer than wine though I think intended the opposite maybe.  There were visitors from the coast who were amazed to learn that peas can be eaten straight off the vine and it pleased my patriotic vanity to have known this before.  The garden in general was beautiful with life and there was this olive-pickle relish thing at the party after all.  You put it on hot dogs with hot mustard and potato chips and every breed of sour and salt and it was fucking beautiful.  The twilight was glorious silk as summer twilights everywhere always are.  The desert twilights where one can see the mountains glow are different but not better.  The prairie twilights with crickets and the smell of life at peak fury are different but not better.

It rained maybe.  I think it rained lightly for a little while or moderately hard for briefer still or maybe not at all.  I said things which I'm told were quite brilliant or amazing and since what I've been told I've said does fit with what I know to be my cadence than alright I said them.  I'm confident that there is no conspiracy to slander my person and it's a lame one if it is so never mind.  Women friends of mine performed a communal poem that mentioned Bachman-Turner Overdrive who I abhor.  I could ascribe their ubiquity on the radio to Baby Boomer privilege except I have never heard any member of my parents generation proclaim any love or even strong like for Bachman-Turner Overdrive.  Nobody wants B.T.O on the radio so it is therefore clear that this Bachman, whoever he is, some uppity little snowback as I recall, is forcing corperate stations to play his shit through some terrible dark power.

In any case there was a moon that I worshipped with the womenfolk for a time and ice cream as well.  I think it was ice cream with chocolate cake or chocolate pie I mean it wasn't just ice cream or was it?  It was a terrible and sublime thing to thaw the ice cream and then separate it from itself into individual bowls.  I realize now that it has always been a terrible and sublime thing to unfreeze ice cream; ever since the time of my grandfather's ice cream and the ice cream of his fathers down through time primordial ice cream is fucking tragic.

There was ice cream and a teacher educated at Ball State who I am now able to recognize only by how she grins at me when she sees me downtown.  After this a carried to the afterparty.  It was a shatteringly existential car ride and I now know this to be the case with all car rides throughout time as with all ice cream.  We went to Hell House where Mikey made Nazi jokes and talked too loud and sang Bob Dylan too loud and drank too loud because Mikey though we love him.  There were  creatures on the couch. The people who lived there along with guests and others too; humanoid worm things with sunless skin stolen from someone but fuck them they are not important.  This ended at some point and in the morning some wank-off of a movie about the power of rock & roll on Netflix.  It was made by someone involved with 'The Sopranos' and nothing happens.  Outside it was hot and nothing ever happens. 

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