LETTER FROM THE ROAD, 1998

i missed the ferry going to alaska last week so i'm gonna take the
ferry there tomorrow. which means that i'm going to be giving my
thanks this coming 24th in sunny ketchikan, alaska. should be more
interesting than any other thanksgiving i've ever had. in the days
since i missed my ferry, i met this strange woman in vancouver. i'll
just tell you a few of the details :

i met a guy from malaysia in a vancouver bar last wednesday night.
his name was speck. after several rounds, we both agreed that in
order to "grab an asshole" (his words for getting some), i had to
have some sort of distinguishing characteristic. he suggested that i
play up my being a texan. "the girls will come," he said. ok.

we stumbled outside, guessing our way back to the hostel. to pick up
my cowboy hat. i had become convinced that the only thing keeping me
from "an asshole" was my $6 flea-market acquisition.

we wandered around. we were both very drunk. needless to say, we
were completely lost within a block of the bar.

after 10 minutes of walking in the rain, i stopped a large female
pedestrian to ask her for directions to our hostel. she offered us a
ride. we took it.

"i'm alexis from greece. greece is a small country but we have big
hearts."

she continued talking about her greek heritage. i'm not sure why. i
started talking about how ancient greek men went to war without
clothing. this interested her. we proceeded to her van, a mangled
mess of missing fenders, spare tires, and party favors. turns out
that this woman ran a business called balloon action. she handed me
her business card, which said, "We deliver anything for any occasion!
Balloon assortments, strip-o-grams, singing telegrams, gorillas,
clowns, and belly dancing!"

interesting situation. but it got better.

she invited me and speck to a black tie affair the next night.

turns out that this "black-tie affair" was the smirnoff ultimate
martini challenge. the canadian national championship for martini
making.

it quite a scene. i sat at the bar and ate patee, liver, skewered
chicken, avocado-ginger wraps, and caviar, drinking martinis and
champagne brought to me by waiters in starched-stiff tuxedoes. i sat
next to a dirty old man dressed in black plastic pants. he gave me
pointers on how to pick up women. "always sit next to the women's
bathroom." "never make your move until after midnight." i was
amazed by this man. as each woman walked into the restroom, he
would tell me, without hesitation, the woman's marital status, sexual
orientation, and drink preference. "i've been doing this for a long
time," he said between puffs of his cigar.

ok. to make a very long story short, i hung out with this woman for
several days, met her father, went with her to an international
ballroom dancing competition (another interesting story). i went
with her to the barber shop and took two rolls of film. i also met a
man in vancounver who referred to himself as "the lord of falafel."
he offered me a job delivering drugs. he said it would pay $10,000 a
mon

BORDER INCIDENT, 1998 -- "CANADIAN BACON"

this morning i had an interesting incident. when driving across the
border, the fat man in the border control booth asked me if i had any
mace or pepper spray. "if you have any, then it's no problem at all,
as long as you declare it. if you have some and haven't declared it,
then i can give you a $500 dollar fine."

simple so far. i'll be a law-abiding citizen and feel good about it.


"yessir, i have a bottle of pepper spray."

now i look at the guy and his smile has been replaced by a stern,
scolding look and a slow nodding of the head. "take this form and
give it to the man inside. "

(pointing to a side parking lot) "pull her on over here, boy..."

i parked my car and walked into the adjacent office. i handed
another fat canadian my form. "oooh, what we got here? a texas boy?
long way from home, eh boy?"
i didn't understand where this guy's tone of voice came from. this
was the second time within two minutes that a canadian officer (i like
to call 'em canadian bacon) had called me 'boy.'

now a burly, butch chick grabbed my arm. "where's that pepper
spray?" this lady obviously saw me as a threat to the greater good of
canada. she clawed my arm with dirty fingernails. dandruff was
visible on the shoulders of her heavy green jacket.

i handed her the pepper spray. she wasn't done with me yet.

"let's go out and take a look at that car, shall we?"

when i got back out to my car, there were already three slabs of
canadian bacon searching the front and back seats.

"ok boy, have a seat on that bench while we search the car. i need
your keys."

i was still willing to cooperate because i knew that i had nothing to
hide.

ten minutes later, shivering badly, i approached the car to grab a
jacket. this startled the officers and they reacted as if i had
approached with a machete or shotgun or something.

"BACK AWAY FROM THE VEHICLE!! NOW!!!"

"i just want my jacket, maam."

"I DON'T CARE!! ON THE BENCH!!"

i sat back down. ten minutes later, i really had to go to the
bathroom. i stood up, stretched out, and started towards the bathroom
about 10 feet to my left.

"WHERE ARE YOU GOING BOY!! SIT THAT CABOOSE DOWN ON THAT BENCH
PRONTO!!"

i couldn't believe this bitch. she yelled like an assistant football
coach, she had the brains of a high-school counselor, and she did it
all in the name of the law. bureaucrat.

"i'm going to the bathroom maam. i really have to go."

"YOU DON'T GOT NUTHIN TO DO BUT SIT YER LITTLE BUTT BACK DOWN ON THAT
BENCH!!"

this whole time, the officers were going through every one of my
possessions. i saw them examining my box of powdered milk. they
tasted it.

(not cocaine. ok. move on to that thar sack of bananas. )

they actually sniff the bananas.

(smells ok. where did this kid stash his stuff? a-ha, the trunk)

they open the trunk and start pulling out my dirty socks and
underwear. within a minute, all my stuff is lying on the pavement.
and still nothing.

now they discover my notebooks. they start reading the notebooks,
going through page by page. they're actually reading the stuff. at
this point i stand up.

"what are you guys doing?"

a canadian officer, with faceful of fat and razor cuts, barrels over
to me, reeking of cheap after-shave.

"Nobody asked you to say anything, did they?"

"they're searching through my stuff"

"I know that. That's fairly obvious. Yes, there they are." He
points to the crows of officers, now 5 in number. "I see them right
there. And yes, they are searching through your car. All Standard
Procedure."

"but what for? i don't understand why this is happening?"

"You trying to hide something? What are you trying to hide from me,
boy? I know there's something. I seen you over there on the bench,
shivering like some freak. I seen you squirming around. (i really
just had to go to the bathroom) What are you so nervous about?"

"nothing. i just don't understand what's happening."

"It's just Standard Procedure around here, boy."

that didn't clear anything up for me.

"why are they reading through my notebooks?"

"Oh, I see. You got some sort of secret information in those
notebooks."

"no. it's just my journals."

"Well, if it isn't secret, then you won't mind us checking through,
will you? Besides, we need to check through everything. Standard
Procedure."

"standard procedure?"

"The Way We Do Things."

"you always read through people's journals?"

"What does standard mean, boy? Think about it. Or didn't they
teach you how to do that at your college down there in Texas?"

i had nothing to say to this imbecile. the situation had gone out of
control. i had nothing in the car that they could get me for,
though. i was safe.

or so i thought.

"Boy, you the registered owner of this car?"

"yeah, i think so."

"What do you mean, YOU THINK SO?"

"well, it's registered either to me or to my dad. we have the same
name."

"I just called in you vehicle's license plate and nothing came up.
WHY do you think that is?"

i really didn't know.

"umm, i'm not sure."


"Well, I got my suspicions. Are you sure this car is yours?"

"yes, of course. " (shocked, surprised) "what are you trying to say?"

"I'm just wondering if this might be a STOLEN CAR. So, is this car
stolen?"

he just came out and asked me. pretty stupid of him to ask. if i
had stolen it, i wouldn't tell the guy.

"NO. i have the insurance to prove it's mine. " i pull out my
insurance card. "see, the VIN # on the card matches the one on the
car."

"That doesn't mean anything to me. If I wanted to, I could insure a
stolen car."

this guy. oh man.

"I'm going to ask you one more time. Did you steal this car? DID
YOU?" His nose is right at my forehead. The steam of his breath
condenses on my cheeks. He stares straight at me, looking for
flinches, uncertainty.

"NO IT IS NOT" i manage to get out a stiff sentence. i think that
the only way to get this guy's respect is to speak like i've got
something up my ass.

"You - had - bet - ter - hope - not - boy" with each syllable he
pokes my chest with a fleshy finger.

i sit back down on the bench and this fucking pig waddles back over to
my car.

after another 10 minutes of searching, the guy comes back over to me.


"Your car's clean. There's nothing I can do to you. But I smell a
rat." he stops and wheezes a deep, rattling breath "Remember, people
are watching you. Remember."

i walk back to my car and the butch bitch hands me my keys. "Have a
nice day!" she says. with some terrible attempt at a smile. close
enough for government work, i guess.

starting the car, i speed across the isolated parking lot's cracked
pavement which, minutes earlier, had been covered in my dirty laundry.

i look ahead and see a sign "WELCOME TO CANADA"

TRANSCENDENT MUSICAL MOMENTS 2000

i hear your music and thoughts and get a half-glmipse of where and who you might have been in the past, and it makes me just want to reach forward and share everything that i've seen - full moons in south dakota, alaskan bears and swirling motions of the heavens known as aurora borealis, thinking about being the young wandering sensitive artist, who wanders through trees and streams, sleeping under the stars, building fires at night for warmth, cooking my own food, my own rich fine food, and leaning back after dinner, contented, sipping a glass of whiskey or beer, smoking a cigar by my fire. writing all my thoughts in a flood, waking with the sunrise, toasting the sunsets, smelling saltwater and feeling sand between my toes, climbing mountain tops, and basking in that two minutes of triumph following a successful mountain ascension, drinking from a canteen, hitching rides in the back of pickup trucks, walking down railroad tracks like a balance beam, riding trains and letting the scenery just flow into a timeless blur, as if somehow, on this little journey, i'd stepped outside of the world, outside time and space, because i'm nowhere distinct, every second i'm in a new place, and everything just flashes by, a divine blur. and meeting people on the trains, straining to understand their english, straining to learn bits of their language, sitting in cramped smoking railcars with general admission seating, feasting on $2 wine and cheese, bathing in hot springs, rivers, and lakes, sending postcards, unknowingly humming happy tunes to myself, strumming a guitar under a full moon in a field of daisies, heading across borders and dealing with those poor, unhappy souls - the border police - and trying my damndest to send them positive thoughts, if that's possible.

these are all things that i love, my friends. someday music will say all this for me. but how? it's all so hard to just spill out, to let it all flow out. it's just an ache, a terrible ache, for beautiful thoughts demand expression, yet sometimes i feel it's just all too much to express in words, something else must work. last night, i played hard, loud rock and roll for the first time in years. a house party with 100 people and 20 or so paying deep attention. the rest jsut there for background noise, i guess. playing guitar, strumming the fuck out of it. it felt beautiful. loud, ringing ears. dull sounds afterwards. the victory beer(s). and it spoke of such possibility. rock music! life suddenly seemed as a lucid dream. and so much more to come.

LETTER TO MY FATHER FROM NICARAGUA 2000

i´ve arrived into expatriot land. as per the norm with most cities i´ve visited, there stumble about a few backpickers- dirty, smelly, lost. but here in san juan, half the americans are old, as in over 50- grey hair, grey beards, southern accents, stumbling along the beach in tourist t-shirts they can´t understand. not a one of these old folks speak spanish. i´ve never quite experienced an ex-pàtriot scene. most of these were men who traveled to costa rica, seeking their fortunes, found the country too expensive, too developed, too americanized (many costa rican restaurants have english menus), too crowded. and here, just across the border, they found the emptiness, the opportunity. a land of empty beaches, high inflation, massive trees. it´s everything that costa rica was supposed to be for them, what costa rica was 30 years ago.

so these old men arrive with stuffed wallets, bloated bank statements, ready to live out the american dream- to stake one´s claim on a hunk of land, to live close to the sea, the trees, and the wind, to achieve distance from their neighbor. there exists no place like this in america. nicaragua seems, as of yet, unspoiled, untouched, ripened and ready for any typical american with typical american dreams and a pension plan.

next door to my hotel sits "nicaragua properties." a sleeping dog guards the door. i´ve never seen him awaken. it´s inevitable that any american who comes here will want a piece of this pie for themselves, for it´s a pie so unsullied that the illusion strongly holds that this place will last forever. it won´t, of course. most of the guanacaste beaches of costa rica followed the same course back in the 70´s, as hippies moved down here with what little money they could scrape up and bought their little plots of land. and now, 20 years later, families on vacation package plans arrive in hordes to their beachfront plots, ready to snorkel, surf, and get overcharged. most families will gladly be overcharged in exchange for a set itinerary.

not that costa rica is an overly expensive country. it´s certainly cheaper than the united states. but one can say with utmost certainty that you´ll never find a local on your snorkelling tour.

i have so much more to tell about this latest trip. it´s re-awakened my love of travel, certainly. i haven´t yet told you about schuyler, the fast talking american real estate developer who met us on a bus, guided us through the border crossing and had his driver take us all over the country. laura and i spent a night in huehuete, a village which had never met gringos before. the children just walked up and stared. we slept oin hammocks outside the home of don segundo cruz, surrounded by his two dozen pigs, cattle, dogs, chickens. we slept in a concrete box in managua. and now san juan del sur. from here, we venture to the middle of lago de nicaragua, to sleep on isal de ometepe. i´ll write more as it filters from my brain.

my hotel room consists of an creaky iron bed, a large mosquito net, and a fading photograph on the wall of a smiling couple. The look happy.

Last evening, followed olive ridley turtles as they laid their eggs on a hidden beach. a teenaged guard stood with a machine gun under a sign that warned folks not to collect or eat the eggs.

WANDERING 2001

a deep, deep romantic mood: thinking about being the young wandering sensitive artist, the boy who smiles at every passing woman and receives smiles from the women as well, who wanders through trees and streams, sleeping under the stars, building fires at night for warmth, cooking my own food, my own rich fine food, and leaning back after dinner, contented, sipping a glass of wine or whiskey, smoking a cigar by my fire. writing all my thoughts in a flood, waking with the sunrise, toasting the sunsets, smelling saltwater and feeling sand between my toes, climbing mountain tops, and basking in that two minutes of triumph following a successful mountain ascension, drinking from a canteen, hitching rides in the back of pickup trucks, walking down railroad tracks like a balance beam, riding trains and letting the scenery just flow into a timeless blur, as if somehow, on this little journey, i'd stepped outside of the world, outside time and space, because i'm nowhere distinct, every second i'm in a new place, and everything just flashes by, a divine blur. and meeting people on the trains, straining to understand their english, straining to learn bits of their language, sitting in cramped smoking railcars with general admission seating, feasting on $2 wine and cheese, bathing in hot springs, rivers, and lakes, sending postcards to the unlucky stagnant people back home, unknowingly humming happy tunes to myself, strumming a guitar under a full moon in a field of daisies, heading across borders and dealing with those poor, unhappy souls - the border police - and trying my damndest to send them positive thoughts, if that's possible.

MOVING TO WASHINGTON 2001

i'm in tacoma now and it's been really crazy ever since i left texas. just drivng, driving, more driving, beer, women, 100 foot trees, snow-capped mountains, cold breezes, incessant rain, rare shine, scalding coffee, parties where i know nobody, random sadness, random elation, relentless rejection, days without showers, holes developing in my jeans, angry rednecks, plaid clad lumberjacks, lost toothbrushes, elvis presley on the radio, a meatball stain on my t-shirt, thrift store hunting for cold weather gear, 6 days without changing socks, cheese and bread for every meal, fresh apples from roadside fruit stands, being scared of strange noises, marvelling at snow covered mountains, sacred time with my girlfriend, long talks about being scared or alone or the future, marvelling at the fresh air and clean sky and stars and everything just flying by- days, hours, towns, miles.

NOTES ON OPEN MIKE NIGHTS 2000

i'm writing songs. i cannot attest to their consistency, but a couple of them have drawn high praise from audiences. small, wiry audiences, bored stiff by those people abusing the open mic - the hootie and the blowsfish imitators, complete with backwards baseball hats and lyrics "i wanna be with you, baybay (baby)." then we've got the open mic night veterans, those who, by virtue of having played these things for 10 years, have lost any sense of restraint or sympathy for their audience. perhaps they see us as captives, and they'll inflict their self-indulgent humming solos for as long as their whiskey buzz can hold. last night i played the cactus to a decidedly cool reception. i finished my red wine and left while the next act set up. it's liberating in a way to know that you're not as good as you'd assumed. that means you've failed once and can repeat the process without another death-shock.

the time i played before, i had brought in a few friends, the place was packed, we were doing songwriting rounds, two songwriters on stage at a time, swapping stories and 'licks.' i got paired with kent mayhew, local songwriter who sports a large hooped earring, a bright red silk shirt, cowboy boots with precious metals imbedded in the leather. just imagine all possible absurd costume accesories, he had them on. well, he sings his song about sunbathing by lake travis, and throws in a few "oh babys" just for punctuation, i suppose. he finishes, i step up and sing a song about riding in an airplane to find god in the clouds, despairing on my failure to find him, dying, meeting an angel, who asks me to describe my life to him. i make up some bullshit, he laughs, and denies my cleverness. then he wakes me up, we find the whole thing was merely a dream. the audience flipped out and i felt like some real rock star. especially sitting next to this pirate from Lake Travis. the contrast between us led to this incredible outpouring of support for my music. then our dear kent mayhew called me jim morrison and i told him to shut up. the whole absurd perfection of his 'compliment' and my response made me feel even better. but, alas the night came to pass, i moved on, came back last night, expecting similar results, and fell on my ass. so now i know i ain't shit and i can be happy just being Bill.

GS455 - BOSTON TO NYC TO D.C.

This is a chapter from a book I am finishing entitled "GS455." The book will describe a cross-country trip I took in 1998.

In the next few days, the chapter will keep changing; I will add and subtract. Footnotes are marked with an asterisk and number (*1, for example).
------------------------------------------------------------------
------------------------------------------------------------------
new england's tollways attest to our society's zealous pursuit of efficiency, cleanliness, and boredom. I say boredom because tollway developers bypass all ordinary roadside diversions - parks, small towns, ma and pa souvenier shops - for shorter driving time. count these tollways as losses for the lovers of backroads diversion, split-ends in the hair-weave of american roadways. so what has emerged in place of small-town - big road junctions? how has america decided to make up for the boredom it has created? commercial clutterings known as interstate 'islands.' Today's highway driver can take a shower, eat frozen yogurt, play computerized trivia games, or ride a mechanical horse, all while filling the gas tank. highway islands have successfully consolidated all roadside necessities, serving up an uncomfortably indulgant fun-feast for road-weary fathers, restless children, and sarcastic college students. clustered roadside commerce has arrived in these wondrous pleasure domes.

there exist no differences from one island to the next. they have each been designed according to the specifications of former U.S. Architect General Wally Gropius(*1), who sought to keep each each island unadorned, simplistic, and thoroughly boring. Perhaps he reserved all diversion for the island's interior. the lobby certainly provides its fair share- a heaping wall of vending machines offers minutes worth of window-shopping. driving gloves, combs, sewing kits, maps, car deodorizers, dog biscuits, panty hose, temporary tattoos, perfume, and electronic baseball games all tease the window-shopper. After browsing the machines, one can rest on the lobby's vinyl pea-green love-seats; they squeak in direct proportion to the sitter's weight, movement, and irritability to noise.


considering the tollways' high speeds and direct cross-country routes, they could've been called 'highly effective,' a phrase usually reserved for cavity removal. indeed, the experiences had much in common - both were orderly, sanitary, and not recomended without the use of prescription painkiller. in other words, the tollways lacked the reckless unpredictability essential to any road-trip. one need not anticipate animals running across the highway, small, family run fruit stands, or flower carts.

all cars sped and roared, driven by some higher purpose- to get to New York City. I slipped into their high-speed migration, a stream of souls eager for the big city's cures and diversions, those seeking to be either lost or found in the anonymity such a city provides. curious to see the seven boroughs myself, i continued towards the supreme monument to civilization and technology. New York presents visitors the jewels of human endeavor - the finest art, music, and films; the latest, greatest technologies; the tallest buildings; the best food; the fastest pace. A culture crawling out of its petri dish, grabbing a microphone, and performing a comedy routine.

It seemed only appropriate to present New York with what I considered the pinnacle of human development - my GS455. Approaching the city, I decided to test my driving -- navigate the 5'o clock swamp (new york rush hour) without slowing down. Absurd, but I couldn't deny myself. Call it naivete or stupiditee; I used those very words myself, several seconds after slogging into the mess.

i hit the city at 60 mph, engine roaring hard, cars squeezing in closer, maintaining speed despite the shrinking maneuverability. traffic doubled every mile until every empty inch of road vanished; bumper to bumper at 70-mph. i needed to drive the car delicately, perhaps not the GS455's strong suit. all cars were now interconnected, in a way- with such limited space, one accident would trigger 4 or 5 others.

still, many drivers (me included) continued pushing, threading spaces less than one carlength long. a complicated process- they turned their car nearly perpendicular to the flow of traffic, spun between two cars, and hit their brakes in a flurry of tire squeals and a plume of burnt rubber, thus righting their wheels and assuring neighboring motorists that they would not need their insurance today.

Inevitably, the traffic slowed from a number of delays- a five-car pileup, highway construction, a rash of cell-phone drivers alternating sentences with unsure stabs on the brake pedal. In fact, the traffic halted several times, during which cars sat still for minutes at a time. It seems that highway pileups bring out the capitalist in all of us, for along the halted highway, through the lines of traffic, men emerged seemingly from nowhere, peddling flowers, newspapers, candy, cigars, cigarettes, combs, soap, highway debris, and license plates. The peddlers had chosen their marketplace well; not only did they have a captive audience (literally), but their isolation from conventional commercial laws allowed them freedom to raise their voices, threaten potential customers, or even puncture tires. A fairly convincing sales pitch.

More creative men hustled off their sobriety, begging drivers to open their hearts and their wallets, with all proceeds promised towards tonight's intoxicants. I inferred this from their cardboard signs, which read, "I need money to get drunk." One man came up to my car window and yelled, "I want beer, gimme some money so I can go get beer." His speech sprayed a drunken saliva-dew on my partially opened window. I gave him a smile and rolled up my window completely; he shot me the finger.

One man peddled himself, an auction based either on desperation, humor, or drunkenness (I've found the three can be interchangable). "Take me for $15," his sign read. No takers, apparently, and for good reason - the man hadn't slept in days, hadn't shaved in months, and hadn't bathed in years - exactly the man you'd expect to be selling himself by the highway. If he had possessed even an inkling of business sense, he'd know to brighten his sales pitch, toss in a little humor. A little deodorant couldn't hurt either. And maybe, while he's at it, he could shake the exhaust grime from his beard.




by and by, i reached the eye of the storm. washington d.c. i really felt it approriate to draw the trip to a close here, since i saw america's dissatisfaction with clinton in every town, county, backroad, driveway, byway, and skyway. i overheard it on mountain tops, in totem pole preserves, in national forests, gas stations, and , from the workers of these places- gas station clerks, park rangers, janitors, eco-tourists, hotel maids, cocktail waitresses, car washers, dish dryers, . for the most part, these interactions lasted less than 10 seconds. i asked them their opinion on clinton, they would shake their head, or wrinkle up their face in consternation, or show some other sign of concern, and gradually confess their displeasure. some people cursed, threw their hands up as if to say, "beyond me, my friend," then clasped their hands above their head, laughed, pulled their hands back down, and clapped them repeatedly, never stopping their laughing or cussing. these people didn't seem surprised by his behavior, only surprised that the incident surfaced. they didn't take the incident too seriously.

one particularly amused man told me, "cain't blame 'im fer messin round on hillary, she idn't much to look at. not dat monica's a real peach, either." he thought that clinton should've forgotten monica and hillary and pursued al gore's daughters.

some spoke in quiet, firm voices.

i found myself fighting back cynicism, trying to be surprised by the president's behavior. i figured that a visit to d.c. would clear up my feelings on the subject.

i saw it on picket signs yelling "impeach!", i saw it written on bathroom stalls and warehouse walls and sold inside shopping malls as presidential dartboards and punching bags. i heard old drunks smash their fists against counter-tops, shaking their fingers at vacant air, slurring a speech about the Good Old Days ("whatever happened to honor in this damn country ... hiccup").

i stayed in a seedy hole-in-the-wall hostel called the student center; i won't go too far into the details because i don't want to scare you, dear reader. actually, the amibiguity of my comments will probably end up scaring you just as much. oh well. i arrived into a poor, poor area, with about 10 or 11 people sitting at the hostel entrance, each one aged by a bleak street life - begging for dimes and nickels, sleeping on concrete, eating food other people have thrown away. i didn't feel so much scared by these people as sad for them. I gave them whatever change i had and went inside.

Soon, loud noises came up from the street and i didn't go back outside for the rest of the night. about 2 dozen men started yelling right outside my window, with one voice overpowering the bunch. "WHO HAS THE POWER?" he yells it over and over. i almost respond sarcastically, but instead attempt to sleep. again, i said 'attempt.' after several hours, the men outside took a break, with a verbose, repetitive, unintelligible woman taking their place. she more than made up for their absence.

------------------------------------------------------------------
------------------------------------------------------------------

Footnotes :

*1 = a made up name. Actually named after prominent figure of the Bauhaus who had nothing to do with roadside rest areas.

"AFTER LIFE BOOKSTORE"

This is a piece of fatnasy that I wrote. While designing the bookstore (see attached diagrams) I had a sort-of out-of-body experience. It was very very strange.

I would really like to make this piece into a short film someday.

-------------------------------------------------------------
Last night, as I sat in line at The Bookstore, I broke into tears.

An employee patted my back and offered sympathy. “Oh, what’s wrong, dear?”

“I died last night,” I muttered between sobs.

She pulled me aside and said cheerfully, “Don’t worry, son. It happens to the best of us.” She dried my tears with tender caresses. “Now that you’ve died, you have all the time you wish to wander around our lovely bookstore. I’ll show you a good place to start.” We went to the section marked ‘The Afterlife.’

“It must seem odd that your afterlife will take place within our scholarly confines. But think nothing of it. Dead students come through here every day. In this section, they search for meaning behind their existence. We have every work, known and unknown, on every subject conceived and yet to be conceived,” she said. “Our store managers have kindly extrapolated the English language for an infinite combination of words over an infinite number of books. So have a look. You might be able to find out which afterlife you’ve entered.”

As I walked around ‘The Afterlife,’ I took my first good look around. The store assumed a pentagonal shape, which extended skyward through a dense network of ladders and balconies far beyond my field of vision. I suppose the most peculiar aspect of the store wasn’t its infinite number of books (for I couldn’t even grasp such a concept). Peculiar to me was the shelves and the books themselves. The shelves weren’t actually shelves; long branches of pine encircled each level of the store. The books themselves weren’t bound in leather, nor were they even printed on paper; the words were printed on pinecones, which made reading particularly difficult. The cones hung from the branches circling each level of the store.
I picked through the branches, discarding cone after cone. Nothing mentioned about a great bookstore forest in the sky. In any case, the search felt futile. Life after death? The mere phrase seemed a contradiction. What could possibly be said about it? But there I was – dead, walking around a bookstore, reading words off pinecones. I felt strange. Frustrated, I found the attendant again.

“What’s the matter, young man? Unable to find any relevant literature? People of your sort come in every so often. They usually tell me, ‘The answers I seek can’t be put into words,’ or some other nonsense. But I tell you: our books have every possible combination of words. If you can state your problem, then we have a book dealing with it.”
I gave a blank stare. “My problem? I just want to know why I’m here. I want to know the reason.”

The bookkeepers’ face froze. “Ah, you’ve asked the question. Most people just dance around the question for years, hoping that some great book will tell them all they wish to know. But I see you’ve figured out our little trick. Time for you to move on, I do believe. Let me call the Creator.”

She paused and pulled out a two-way radio. “Yes, JL? I have a young man here who wants to know why.” Pause. “Ok. I’ll tell him.”

“Apparently there's been a mistake. You're still alive."

They tossed me onto the street and slammed the door.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
CLICK BELOW TO SEE THE DIAGRAMS

PURPOSE OF THIS BLOG

In the spirit of full disclosure, I have decided to start posting old writings of mine. Some are old, some not so old. Some of these will seem wordy, silly, or simply lack a flow. Some will address topics I could never touch now. Some will read like a dream. All resonate for some reason.