chicken scratch fever

So I'm trying to write a story. I guess I'm back in that mode where I wanna write fairytale stories in modern settings. The story I started writing yesterday was about a dragon setting fire to a bistro. Today's story has some sort of gun toting, frozen tundra wandering drifter hitting on a waffle waitress, but I'm totally BLOCKED.

Worse yet, I'm missing my own writing workshop this Sunday, because I have a show. This show:



I'm spamming the whole internet with it. It's gonna be awesome, but I fear it will
also be unattended.

I feel like I should write something but all I feel smart enough to talk about is Bukowski. For fairweather fans and the uninitiated, when I talk about Bukowski, I'm talking about my pet rat.

Charles Bukowski, the writer. Henry Chinanski, he'd be calling me a pussy right now for saying things like "I just haven't been able to write since I started my new job."

There's a quote somewhere, that I carry around paraphrased in my head, where he berates some wannabe who says he doesn't have the time:

"Real writers always have the time, even if they don't have the paper. They write on scraps in their pockets, napkins, check stubs, and receipts. They write in charcoal and blood. They write in ketchup, they carve the words into themselves if they have to."

Bukowski, the rat... he doesn't judge. When he doesn't want me petting him, he climbs onto the keyboard and says things like

o p;< ;

I've gotta watch out for that kind of saccharine. I've got to avoid it, before turning into some kind of despicable pet blogger. Still, the rat is comforting. The only thing softer than his fur is the skin where he's mangy. That's how I know I've got it bad, the extent that I treasure his unique ugliness.

He's no muse, but he does inspire me to write the occasional piece, even if it is just some joke movie review. The last movie we saw together was that David Duchovy flick Kalifornia. The film would have been better if it had the twist ending I was suspecting it would have, but it was pretty straight-forward. The killer was the killer, and did not get away with it in the end, even though it was Brad Pitt. Juliette Lewis played the abused country retard girl in love with him. There are a few Red Shoe Diaries shots of Mulder's butt as he goes to town on his girl and when it was over, I still had no idea why the title was spelled the way it was.

In what may have been the boringest interview I've ever listened through, Terry Gross interviewed a back specialist on Fresh Air the other day. He was talking about surprising new research that showed that spinal chord injuries, the ones that can heal will heal in most cases without medical treatment. He was talking about how he has to tell patients to get out and run after a certain point, because even though it will hurt more, it will heal quicker. In the interest of healing quicker, I'm going to keep writing through this block. Feel free to turn the page, sign out, move on, and do what you have to do if you're reading this. Because the treatment is only supposed to hurt me, so you might want to cut out if you're feeling the burn.

As I sip what very well might be my sixth soda today, a fitting story might be the time I passed a kidney stone on a road trip, but the sentiment passes alot easier than the stone did. It's a great story to hear, but on paper not so much..........

If I can put the right kinds of voices into my head, I can work through it. My brain wants Tori Amos. My brain wants Kimya Dawson. My brain wants Josephine Foster, Josephine Baker, Roger Waters, Maynard James Keenan, Meret Becker, Marnie Stern, and Diamanda Galas. I'm surprised not to skip through a Skunk Anansie song when it comes up. Paul Simon is completely wrong but the guitar makes up for it.The story starts in progress, the man sits and we don't quite know what she thinks about him, his food has not been brought to him yet.

"I dreamt about you again last night."

"Don't tell me that."

"Why not?"

"It's creepy."

"You don't even have to come over here, you know? I order the same thing every goddamn day."

"You might want something different."

"I can promise you it ain't really me if I ever do. Ways I see it, if you're coming over here after all this time, it's because you fancy my company, or at least you know what to expect from me and you don't mind."

"You're sitting on my side."

"You could still send Sadie."

"Not to my worst enemies."

"It'll be great, I'll tip her like shit."

"You tip me like shit."

"Yeah, but with you it ain't malicious."

"Coffee black?"

"Yes please."

"Danish?"

"Certainly."

"So what's your dream?"

"You were my second grade teacher. We had to keep our love secret. "

"Jesus, I would hope so."

"Not for that. My grandmother was your boss. Everyone knew though. We pretended we didn't know, but everyone was jealous."

"Whaddya think it means?"

"Outside that I'm a luckier man asleep than I am awake? Lotsa things, lotsa little brain things that make sense to me, but I'd rather not go into them. You're much prettier than my second grade teacher was."

"That's good to hear."

And with that she leaves. Pivots on her heel and takes her sweet time getting my danish from some part of the restaurant I've never seen. Normally I don't have a thing for girls in yellow aprons, but Jessamine's special. She's tall, with curly red hair and a nice thick ass, and she knows how to make coffee the way I want it. I don't know how she feels about me.

The money's on the table before I finish. The to-go bag arrives before I ask for it.

"Big spender as usual?"

"Hey, if I were to start giving you what you deserve, you might just go and retire, and its certainly in my best interests to have you nearby where I can look at you every once in a while."

"Well shit, Honey. You give me enough money where I can retire and you can look at me all the time, in the pictures... that I send you from Hawaii."

"Nah, you'll send one picture and then forget about me."

These other schmoes, maybe, but you? Never. Besides, you'll be able to see a whole helluva lot moe of me in one of those golden beach bikinis I'll be wearing than this ugly thing."

"Yeah, but it's not the same."

"I know. Well shit, lemme give you a kiss, just in case this is the time that you don't make it."

Her lips touch my cheek and shivers jolt through my body. She guides me towards the door with her hand on my back.

"Now get outta hear you dirtymotherfucker. People are trying to order food and they need me for that/"

A fresh layer of snow covers the row of trucks outside. Their inhabitants are all eating, or sleeping, washing up in the bathroom. I pass them by, and cross the empty freeway. It's amazing how quickly civilization gets lost behind the wind drifts out on the tundra. I luck out and find some tracks before they're completely covered. I pat myself down to make sue I've got what I need: rope, knives. a side arm, a shotgun. Everything I need. It's time for the hunt to begin.








[currently listening to TORI AMOS]