I am going to start posting some excerpts, they are like journal entries, of a book idea which I am working on...

Fact Based. It will all come together, I just wanted to share it.... For something different.


Valley Couch Valley 1


His veins burn bad. He was in so much pain when they put the pique in that it did not even bother him to watch. It was bizarre, a couple of weeks prior, he had stood beside his wife, as she got an ultrasound, in a different hospital than this one, or maybe it was the same one. Now the ultrasound was here again, but he was on the receiving end. He had been complaining for the last couple of days that the IV was burning up his veins, that he could feel every little bubble of medicine, as it seeming would shoot in, stop, collect, stop, and then race into his vein, no warning or slow delivery, it felt like being thrown into hot water, unbearable. The demerol was a welcome change, he had also watched as they sewed up his arm with three layers of neat stitches, a local helped with that, but for some reason, it still hurt when they cleaned the wound. Antiseptic and water sprayed into a open wound, bloody layers of skin and muscle, stung clean, turned white with and dried with soft gauze. This did hurt much more than every strong stitch that would come, maybe 15 minutes later. So, the nurses were really sympathetic, and set him up with said IV, and he was getting all kinds of drugs pumped into him, every few hours. But as stated painkillers as well as antibiotics were burning up his veins, and he was about to be discharged, so they set him up with up this line that went into his arm, and made a trail, all the way up, inside his arm, then down his chest, to pierce a vein just parallel to his heart. This, he knew, from the ultrasound, he watched on the monitor, as the whole thing happened. The gel felt cold, starting on his elbow, then going up, around, then down his chest, to right inside his right nipple. The wand, or camera made the coldness subside a bit, but then he was transfixed by the monitor, he had never been so aware of his body until now. He watched a tiny tube push its way through him and all he felt was pressure soon, the pain momentarily stopped. He watched as the tube settled unto that vein beside his heart. His heart was beating like normal, a miracle, or a curse, at this point, he didn't know. He remembered imcompasitated on the highway, coming to, then passing out, when he saw his arm all cut up through the windshield. He was concious again, in the ambulance, asking about her, they said nothing, and that's when he knew it was all bad. His heart was beating on a TV screen and he was lucky. Stitched up bruised and in pain, but making it.


CHANT


Words goes through my head all the time. It's common, I think, for the brain to work faster than the hand or mouth. I used to carry around a microcassette recorder to take everything down, at any given time. I would be on the bus or walking or anywhere, really, and could take down any thought. I eventually went back to the the tried and true notebook carrying, and for a while in there too, I carried a note pad. The little one was especially good for going to shows. I remember the first day I bought one on the way to the city. I was going to see QOTSA at Thr Fillmore with Slobot and The Fucking Champs. I started writing everything down at shows... I am total dork for setlists and scenary. I used to it all down on scrap flyers and cocktail napkins, as I was inspired to. The walls in my room were always just filled with pushpinned scraps. I would just write the most random shit down, good stuff though. I went to see the Afghan Whigs, also at The Fillmore, and I remember that there was this guy there, dressed in short shorts and this day glo orange rain poncho. He kind of looked like Rollins. We got to the show very early, before they opened the doors, so we were brown bagging a six pack on Geary. I noticed this dude right away. He was stocky, but I wouldn't mess with him. He had a crew cut and looked pretty menacing, other than the fact that he was wear those shorts and the poncho. Actually, now that I am writing this, I remember we did we speak, we arrived and took a spot in line, they're were maybe like 25 or so people there. OK, he was chilling against a wall, and he didn't REALLY look like he was in line, so I looked at him and stood in front of him, it didn't look like he was in line, again. All of a sudden he cruises up and says that I cut in front of him. He was probably right, it is just that I didn't know, but even though I was a good three heads taller than him, he didn't look like the type to be fucked with, so I didn't say a word except, "I apologize" and moved back. He was cool, he did not use any words, but his intense stare softened ever so slightly... A good thing. We got inside a few minutes later, and still for the time of day, it was a sparse crowd, kind of surprising for the Whigs, I remember I thought. All of sudden I see the guy, in the corner of the club, and he starts doing squats, alot of them, and then jumping jacks! I shit you not! Alot of those too, and then checking his pulse, and then windmills, all these fitness routines... I remember the squats though, amusing the hell out of My Wife and I the most. We laughed about that for the longest time after. BUT- It was he who had the last laugh, I guess because he chilled through the opener, (all this drivel about how I wrote it all down, and I didn't write their name down, and for the life of me, I cannot remember who it was. Holes in that plan, I suck.) but when the Whigs came on, he was up there, right up front, and he knew every word. He was pumped, man! That was a good show, the 1965 tour... I should go on one of the Afghan Whigs fansites, and see if they chronicled who they played with, that night. I am positive it is out there.

The microcassettes.... that was short lived, cause you know, that is way too blatant to take to shows, but I carried one around alot, for awhile. I would carry it and record all kinds of sounds, and more importantly, I would record every jam I had with all these different people... I was high on speed one night and started this project called, Fan Boy. It was basically just me playing with all these different people, under one guise, in my mind. Speed sucks, alot, but I miss some of those nights... I found one of the FB tapes, I think probably like the 73rd one or something. It was marked 1997. It was one of the few I made without Pat (drums/guitar in FB). I find it really hard to listen to my own shit, it is taking me really long to write songs these days because I am doing everything myself, and then I will listen to it back a couple of days later, and scrap all but one song that I cut and paste together. So I found this tape from 97, that a buddy and i made while we were all spun out. As I prepared to cringe, when I hit play, I did, but was pleasantly surprised at how well it stood up. It was one of the few we did with an electric guitar, and an acoustic, me singing. These were, they all were guerilla style. We would settle on chord progression right away, tape the run through, I would write lyrics on the spot, we would jam it through, and we would record it, then move on. Remember, going fast was involved, and that, you would think, would make quality an issue, like there would be NONE, but as I listened back, we did have SURPRISING grip on quality control. Ok, well that one song (that I think I wrote about awhile back), about James Hetfield's moustache, alright that was pretty gross, but the music was cool! It's funny, I have done literally, a gangload of recordings, and I cringe at almost all of them, but THIS one, stands up? There are some others too. I remember one night, another jam I was really into this girl, so I wrote this whole concept piece about how amazing I thought she was, all the way, from jamming, writing, inception, the whole thing was finished in about 12 hours, and I totally also, still being all cracked, and going to play it for her, and it worked. I am using one of the movements in that, actually as a part of a new song. The OG tape of that session is storaged away, I do not really need to listen to that one again, but the one I heard made me think of it. Outside of drinking, I have been drug free, otherwise, for quite some time. I kind of went back and forth, fo a long time. I am happy not doing any of that shit, now, and I wouldn't have it any other way, but hearing the tape made me smile... All those little fucking symphonies.

I have an urge to post "The Old Man and the Sea" in its entirety, but it is subsiding.

Just because Burg is gone, doesn't mean we need a verbosity replacement around here.

His veins burned--so badly that he didn't mind the pique. Weeks before he had stood over his pregnant wife as she took an ultrasound, in this very hospital, or perhaps it was another...he could not remember. Now he watched as others look down on him. For days he had complained of the IV burning in his veins, how each bubble of medicine expanded, stopped, collected, stopped again, and finally raced into his body. Each dose was like being thrown into a tub of scalding water. He had watched as they sewed his arm with three layers of neat stitches. He had felt no pain thanks to the local anaesthetic.

But the cleanings were different. Dutiful nurses sprayed antiseptic and water into the wound, creating bloody layers of skin and muscle, and turning the wound a harshly stinging white. A sympathetic nurse set him up with an IV, but the combination of painkillers and antibiotics compounded his pain. Worse, upon discharge the line was forced deeply and upward into up his arm, into the nethers of his chest and into his very heart, creating an eerie trail--like a bodily invasion.

Nice editing job, Zen. Too bad you weren't around for Thomas Wolfe. He could have used you. Maxwell Perkins done him wrong.

I don't know about that. Wolfe was to literature as Sally Struthers is to dieting.

I think Perkins did a bang-up job with Fitzgerald.

That was sarcasm, JB and HL.

I poop all over F. Scott, Ernie and Tom.

Hmmm... Must have been having a Darrah moment.

When in the hell did this place become the New York Times Book Review section?

The NY Times Book Review section is unreadable drivel. They have TERRIBLE taste in books. More interesting here.

It's AWOP. Besides, it's better than Panzer and his Arson-Induced heart problems.

charlie didnt db once have his own article at fox mag?

He did, G. That "20 Questions..." thing, whatever it was called.

I no longer have ANY back issues, or I would know the title. This is for the former publisher:

So much for "A World Outside Of Porn"

Just trying to find ways to get some shit out, that differs from literary journals and slams, which I've done to death.

Black people partake in "slams". Go to http://www.sfbayvideos.com/Forum/ and post there.

This board and jondra need a Raymond Carver of its own - someone able to express the angst, debauchery and conflict that make up the subject - all in short story form. Five hundred words or less.

I am also thinking about writing a book. In my case it will be more like drawing it since I don't know how to write. I was thinking of something like Alex Panzer's Book of Designs and Ideas.

Black people partake in "slams". Go to http://www.sfbayvideos.com/Forum/ and post there.


I guess if I was BLACK, that would work.

Funny, though... Hmmmm, simple minds.