Sunday, February 1, 2015


For the sheer sake of variety I write of the life that I know. Call it an experiment. No special place to start, nothing too clever or contrived. None of the old tricks.

I put in a few morning hours splitting wood, strict avoidance of potholes on the road up the mountain ever a necessity, the rutted back roads of Humboldt being hard on my bug. Usually when driving I listen to music. This time though it's CDs I burned of me reading Nietzsche's letters.

Certain it is I am indeed, rock-ribbed and unfailing in my belief that my Friedrich Nietzsche screenplay as envisioned lo these years would when filmed prove thoroughly engaging. This movie playing in my pineal gland stirs me to action, and I see thunderous scenes with each resounding swing of my monster maul.

Equally prevalent, images from Matterhorn, an action-adventure I have in mind set in the Swiss Alps in the 1880s and featuring loads of laughs, soaring music, and spectacular cinematography, sure to have everyone sporting Tyrol hats and lederhosen in no time.

Leaning the maul against a half-split round of fir, I take the damp folds of paper towel from a back pants pocket and use it again to wipe the sweat from my brow, around my eyes, behind my neck. Mindful of the sun, I drink water from a one gallon plastic jug in the shade.

The road winds to the work site like a trail Nietzsche takes as though moving on a speedy conveyor belt in a scene from the movie in my mind playing with Bach's "Toccata and Fugue," doors in dwarf oak opening like pipe organs and cuckoo clocks and giving glimpses in time with the music of figures from his writing.

The rumble of a pickup truck precedes its appearance on the hill. I chuck a chunk of fir that flew away in the split onto the wide pile of wood and wave to the truck going by. I don't know who's inside, but I see a hand wave back. People do that when they're way out alone. Opposite of busy places, here it would be rude not to. Vaguely mulling that, I put wet gloves back on and pick up the maul.

For no good reason I hear "Ashoken Farewell," theme song to Ken Burns' The Civil War, serene pulchritude of poignant modulations playing only in my mind.

Ahh, Magnavox. I declare, back in the early '80s, I do remember we had us some TV then. "Hunter" was into its second season. "Cagney and Lacey" was doing very well in the ratings. Indeed, in Miranda, upon the veranda, of a sultry summer evening, we would observe the goings-on of not only one Simon, but two.

In one split round, gray goop drips. Not regular sap at all. Some strange kind of sludge.

Heading back down the hill, I wonder what would happen if I spent twelve and a half days in a completely dark cave. That would give me the three hundred hours required, according to the research, for pineal gland stimulation. More accurately, my experience would prove to me firsthand the veracity of this supposition. As a writer, naturally I would record my findings. Probably even be able to run it in The Independent.

On the Avenue of the Giants I keep my third eye in mind. Coors in the cooler at Deerhorn Market call. Last fall the owners let me put up a flyer for my Creative Writing class through College of the Redwoods in Garberville. I remind myself to print out some flyers for the spring class coming up. Brushing sawdust from my forearms and kicking it loose from my boots, I open the door and set the bell on it jingling. They've got Boston on inside.

If it's a dude behind the counter, all will be well.

Sometimes, all hasn't been well.

I met a gal around these parts a couple years back, when I was sent tumbling wide from the big split. One night having met, this gal and I made plans to hang out the next day. We exchanged numbers. That night, on the phone, I happened to mention it to a pal.

The next day she called me to say she thought she'd be a little bit late, and then again called me shortly afterwards to say she was ready after all, and that we could meet down at the grove below Miranda.

I drove down and found her waiting outside her rig with her dog. We walked around for awhile before discovering that her uncle and I had gone through grade school together. This was fine, no big deal, we had only just met. But we could see there was no possibility of anything further. All good, we parted.

A couple days later I happened to meet someone who turned out to be, this time, her aunt. And a couple days after that, when I happened to see her again, this gal was all ticked off with me that her aunt found out we met. Because it turns out she lied about being single, and didn't like her aunt knowing we had met in the grove.

Lucky for me, the buddy I had happened to tell was around one time when she started lying about me. Somehow my name came up, whereupon she said my name aloud as an interrogative, followed by the claim that I had once stalked her down to the grove below Miranda. My friend was quick to catch this, explaining to her and everyone else present that, no way, he knew that she had called me, called me up twice, and waited down there for me to show up. And his saying all that shut her up, that time.

But then there were all the other times she made the rounds, all the times my friend wasn't there to clear the air, set the matter straight, and put her in her place. And a lot of those times were with girls behind counters.

Author, books? Huh, whuh?

Oh, that guy? I heard he robs people's graves and sells the bodies for medical experiments.

The guy behind the counter says he liked my movie review. I thank him and pay for my Coors half in change.

Back in the bug, what with the chem-trails, NWO GMOs, fascist state drones and big oil fracking, I wonder how much the planet can stand. Long shadows from tall trees tiger-stripe the road, and cosmic conditions align with each glinting glimpse of the sun on the snaking Eel.

Homeless hikers hanging out in the corners of the overgrown ruins watch the haves move by while they brush up on their Hieronymus Bosch.

When I get to the house, I mow the lawn, then take a shower, zap some grub and check online before getting a call. It's a guy I know. Says he's found a bunch of graves, and wants to know what time I'd like to help him rob them so we can sell the bodies and make a few bucks.

I say eight-ish, he says fine. On the way out to the work site in his pickup I give him the gist of my Matterhorn movie idea, and start piecing loose bits together.

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