Straight from the edge of ruin.

See, morey is not, as is, some who are. Not at all. morey is what is as morey, and not at all restrained by what is, or protruded by what is, or confined by what is, human. The morey bothers humans because he shows no respect to them, and no respect to the things they respect, and all humans have that one thing they respect which, if one should disrespect, a little button is depressed in that person's head and they go into anger mode, like when you're a kid at school and somebody disses your mom and you have to fight them for it. You don't know why and you're getting mad, but you're building that anger, it isn't exactly there but you have to put it there because somebody just insulted the woman you love and you know not how to react... Like when morey disrespected Hemingway. That could have bothered me because Hemingway understands what it means to have light shine through leaves outside quiet cafes, he understands the drink and the insanity and the smoke, the gun and the fist and the horn; Hemingway knows the silent moments in which man is imperfection incarnate and is dipped in a selfish solitude that makes God grasp at him with a curiousity akin to the God in Vonnegut's Breakfast of Champions who just had to know what his human once in a world of robots would say when he came sliding down the mountain to wade below in the river spring. But the disrespect is not grounded! He doesn't know Hemingway, but morey knows know and is of not knowing that which is unknowable, so that he can paint and ride bikes and smile queerly to the derelicts of worldly 'burbs. Anywhere, anyone, any time, morey can drink in a character and like it without ground. See, he respects nothing. No value or tradition or religion or constitution, but if morey likes you it is for something as simple as a chemical cocktail and a series of events, an acid flashback and a circadian mistep, sugar you didn't want in a coffee you can't return because you're already at work, but it turns out being the best coffee you've ever had. And on that groundless ground in the wake of uncertainty, morey, that flittering thing likes and dislikes without reason, just passion, dividing heaven and hell on a cunt hair decision and riding insanity to divine inspiration that is the lohan. Be so enlightened as to see without seeing, to take texture from afar the way you take colour, the way your eye extracts it from a distance that could only be spoken of in a paranormal tongue by the born blind that hasn't the concept to take colour from distance. Live and let live. Do not understand morey, but hear him, the way you walk out of a hairdresser with the same haggard trot after she guessed your sign and that of your friends, told you how you fuck up and why and when, things nobody could have known, and nod to astronomy but pass it by, take and absorb and move on, like what you must do to the teachers and cops and faculty if you know who you are, and accept the morey as a commodity. Cause I've thought it over and that mother fucker ain't human. Nightrious Sat, 09/06/2008 - 09
Oct 14
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Roxie drops a bomb

       Rain was hitting hard and loud against the walls and windows of the gallery.  I knew if I didn’t do something, the place was gonna be invaded by non-customers seeking shelter, not art. So I went around locking doors, and then, just in case anyone had snuck in without my awareness, I also did a quick tour of the entire building, gallery, bathrooms, and office. Lastly I open the door to the old walk-in safe.  Inside I found what appeared to be a woman, squatting against the far wall. She barely had clothes on and was so darkly tan I couldn’t clearly make out any features.  I’d seen her around town though, I recognized the cowboy boots and big hair.

       “This isn’t a toilet babe.”  I tell her.

        “I’m hiding,” she says, “You’re an asshole.” 

     She sounds clear enough, I was expecting something more primitive, grunts and the like, maybe a low moan, mental patient conversation.

     “Well whatever load your dropping don’t chuck it at me please.”

   It occurs to me she may be in danger or something, maybe I am. “Do you need help, the police?” I ask her. I imagine her as insane, throwing feces around, or maybe pulling a knife. I step back secure in the knowledge that I can slam the heavy door shut, locking her in, and I do just that. I shut her in.  She’s a loose cannon, I’ll figure out what to do about her later.

        I pass by the entrance vestibule and am stopped short by a loud rapping against the glass of the door. Pressed against it I make out a loud coat and a blond hairdo getting undone by the rain.  It’s Madonna’s Mom. I’ve met her once or twice, so I open it for her.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      She’s got a purse dog hanging out of her purse. I reach to scratch its head and it snaps at me.

          “What are you doing in town?” I ask, cause even though she’s just a part-time resident she should still know to avoid the city this week.

           “I have to pee Mike,” she squeezes past me and I relock the door.  I’m pleased she remembers my name. I like Madonna’s Mom.  I smell liquor as she hurries past.

      I’m pondering the situation in the safe, thinking maybe I should let her out. She could run out of air, or something, make a mess. This is what I’m wondering but I’m not taking any action.  I’m just leaning on the bar pretending to be listening to Madonna’s Mom gripe about that phony English bitch. 

      “You like a cocktail?” I ask her although I’m thinking she doesn’t really need one.

      “As long as it ain’t wine,” she laughs and takes a playful swing at me, which I dodge with a quick intake of breath. They own a vineyard.

      “You sure? We got cherry in the house,” I’m kidding, the cherry wine is disgusting, syrupy and sweet, fuel for an assured hangover. 

        “Ugh,” She says.

 

        “Hey where’s your dog?” The little rat hound she came in with is nowhere in sight.

      “I don’t know,” she says leaning over the bar, “ and I don’t really care, that phony English bitch gave it to us.” She adds with an exaggerated eye roll.   I replenish her drink, a highball made of pomegranate juice and lo-grade vodka. I like to counterbalance the destructive elements of alcohol with ludicrously healthy mixers. I tell her she can just say it disappeared into an art gallery. It died for art. I go looking for it anyway.

         I find the dog sniffing around the safe.  The woman has vanished but the mutt appears to have discovered whatever treasure she left behind. Right now I’m wishing I’d never said I’d man the gallery during Cherry Festival week. The owners wanted to just close it for the duration, and had left town. I don’t like being responsible. I could delegate, or I could call the police, but I can see that getting real complicated with accusations flying about god knows whatever some crazy, bony, beach slut can come up with. The police have procedures; they have to follow through, whereas us citizens can, if we’re sneaky, do just about whatever we want. 

   

     

         In the backroom I find the woman having her ear bent by Madonna’s Mom.

        “Who let you out of your cage?” I ask.

       “Clever,” she says rather calmly, “It’s raining heavily and I was hoping for a respite.”

      “You didn’t lock the door you know,” she adds, “closing it is not locking it.”

     She’s actually talking down to me. I can either flip out and look like a doofus or I can go along with her normal lady routine and see what happens. She just shit in the safe, and now what? I’m supposed to offer her a beverage.  “Call me Roxie,” she tells us. Madonna’s Mom says, “I’m Betty,” which I’m glad of cause I forgot her name. 

         “Well Roxie,” I ask, “Would you care for a soda?”

         “Do you two have a history or something?”  Betty asks, looking at me, eyebrow arched. 

         “Well Betty” I start, “This crazy freakshow bitch, not ten minutes ago, was taking a dump in the gallery safe, so if that’s history we have it. She took a shit, and I saw her do it.”  

       “Well then,” Says Betty.

         Roxie’s doing exactly nothing but looking at me with what reads as disdain. What’s that about?  Is pooping randomly in people’s place of business normal in her strange, no doubt drunk and violent beach-whore world?  I suppose it seems more civilized than just dumping behind a bush or a boulder. I really don’t even know if she did poop or not, I just figured that that’s what she was up to. What else could she have been up to, squatting like that, having a baby?  

  

            The little rat dog skitters into the room with something hanging out of its mouth.  I can’t tell what it it’s got but Betty takes Roxie by the hand and starts whispering loudly. I’m tempted to warn her that close proximity isn’t advised when Roxie starts screaming, “EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!” She takes refuge in a couch at the other end of the room and I ask Betty what the hell she said to her. “I just told her not to worry, that in Heaven the angels eat the babies,” She answers sweetly. This is news to me but, who am I to question it, Betty’s a Catholic and I’m nothing. Besides I’ve heard stranger religious proclamations.

           “Hey Betty, Where’s that thing your dog had?”

           “The preemie?’ She says, “I chucked it out back, and the mutt followed.” 

           “Did you fling it away from the building?” I’m hoping, “The baby, not the dog.” 

       I really don’t want someone coming across a discarded fetus outside the gallery, so I take a look, but there’s too much rain. It was still coming down hard, like a wall, but it was also creeping along the ground. Refuse floated. I saw a big dirty bra with a half eaten corn dog stuck to it float by.  I shout out DoggyDoggyDoggy, just in case it’s within hearing range, and then shut the door. I’m sure it’s off in search of food.