pt 1 text

It started a long time ago. Before he had even thought about it in sentences and explanations. It was the one plausible explanation. That is to say, the explanation he most wanted to believe in . . . it was the way things seemed to be pointing.

Nobody said it was true, but no one denied the possibility of it either. It was constructed of thousands of bits of pop culture flooding his brain. An explosion of youth trying to define itself without having the time to understand what it was doing.

Who were these people on the album covers? Where was their world, that could only be caught out of the corner of eye, of on the cover of some magazine you couldn't afford. In an unknown world anything could be true. . .

Fashion forms out of a void. A chaos as abstract as econometrics and other contrived systems of explanation designed to describe the confusion . . . the shared confusion, the basic assumptions . . . those unspoken rules . . . the musicians don't always know when they are composing the music . . only When they play . . . or somebody writes it down.

CONFUSION in capital letters . . . it forms somewhere in the eye . . . an image so abstract you can only suspect the possibility of it. An ideal that improvises itself in the subconscious, the describable-curves of the mind, the impossible equation. An answer to an unasked question . . . a question that hasn't or can't be put into words.

But, in the instant it is asked, it goes on for as long as anyone cares to listen.

Potential energy, ready to explode all over the place. And when you are running full speed ahead . your feet pounding against a street someplace . . .

The MYTH of youth is a reflection of dreams unrealized and unquestionably possible. The adrenaline starts pumping somewhere in between the rhythm guitar and the bass line, under control, control, and almost control again. ' Youth stumbles up to the microphone and says everything again. New, and every generation needs to say it again, in their own words. The words are theirs and no one eases.
A scene is reborn by a million tiny decisions. It happens despite everything . . . a single unspoken word.

INCANTATION

The book of thoughts - the shadowy perspective, trite? Perhaps . . . but just possibly truly dark thoughts are always there. In a place we'd like to call unknown. Subconscious, hidden, somehow half seen. This book tries to put these thoughts in the light of what I do know. This book should be a place to release insanity on paper - without fear of the audience. Let go of depressions - put them in their place. Divide and conquer. . . Separate from casual conversation this book is to protect myself. Maybe look at thoughts refined and sharp so I can see them. Know them. Laugh - taunt them into hysteria and meaninglessness - subvert and in a way destroy them. It would be a mistake for the reader to confuse the content of this denote booked with the author's true psychology. This is a fragment, a dark look. Anger, perversity obsessions, crimes, hate, violence - abuse, sin - not ment to be seen as a truth but as a condition - an inescapable fascination. - I think this is an interesting experiment - the armchair voyeur who has this book in hand might find it some how interesting, curious, maybe frightening; I certainly do. My best dreams are part nightmare.
What is the darkest thought that can come out of a frustrated pen? I write often when I am lonely. When I am happy I am usually doing something else.

So, be prepared for the irrational, emotional terrorism, thoughts that are sharp. Can sharp thoughts cut the soul? But if one is careful, observing the destruction of these thoughts - shattering the dark illusions thoughts can make.

Observe the humor.
Mirrors of unreason.
Be careful, the light here is dangerous.

(here starts the book)

SkaRat
A VERBAL CARTOON

A battered cassette tape is inserted in a black jambox on top of a bedroom dresser . . .

THESE are DANGER DAYS WHAT SORT OF DAY IS IT?
THESE ARE TROUBLED times, do ya KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS?
the Boomtown Rats

The student inhaled his coffee, the noxious black substance poured down his throat giving him an intense feeling of satisfaction. He hated coffee, but this was perfection, the idealized cup of coffee, the holy grail of caffeine, and he needed it.

The long Saturday night he had spent alone (unexpectedly) left him with the distinct need for unproductive and anti-social behavior, some kind of luxury. So he stayed out last night, shoving all his worries and responsibilities out of his mind. He wanted to see the sun rise. He had never reached his bed, and this was his reward for evading sleep , the end of an evening, his resurrection. The student liked coffee alone. He took another deep drink.

In his morning euphoria, he didn't hear the low hum of Sunday traffic. He didn't see the vile green tentacles rise out of the garbage disposal - coming ever closer to his stiff neck. The tentacles twisted and shivered with evil pleasure as they dripped and slimed over to the oblivious drinker. They stretched out about for feet from the Messy sink, only about a half inch more to the student's neck. Three more pulse beats and the slime beast would lunge, one fatal blow. The student whipped out the large butcher's knife from the kitchen drawer and hacked the killer slime in two. The startled slime shook in agony and recoiled back down into the garbage disposal, with a deep gurgle of pain.