Sunday, November 10, 2002

 

Rip it Tippy. I found some of what Ole Neo had to say as innaresting, y'dig? I even wept at his reading of the fifth of Balvenie. It was awe inspiring. It was denominational. Hell, I'd even put him up for and award of some kind or a ribbon to be wrapped around his neck like a kerchief, or a babushka. He never smelled any good at that time, but his instincts told him otherwise. That by not bathing his creative muse was being stimulated. Something about the accumulation of scents, and the variety from day to day. None of us could tell which smell from the next, or how bad they compared to one another. Nope, we all resoundingly agreed that Ole Neo and his room in the run-down flophouse on Sybil were of the same scent and badly so. It was like someone's feet in there. Or a can of rotten vegetables, or even an open and ruined stash of fruits that had been in the sun too long than left out in the rain, and over-ripeness.



His writing, tho, was monstrous. It fused our psychedelic experiments with mushrooms and acid with that of the every day life. It had piieces of Ann Arbor's campus. The cube that spins around as big as a building and the Law quad with faces in the foundation and hermits wiothin its halls. The ice cream stores that we'd sneak into and steal away quarts, the basement being our refuge when the trips got too strong, we'd hide amidst the 'to go' cups.

Ole Neo travels lightly, even when he has weeks to stay away. He'd visited San Francisco back awhiles. We stayed up in the North End Caffe, and watched pretty girls go by when, in February, we had an off-chance bright and sunny day. He would recall the days we made fun of the professional students and the busy library that buzzed silently, like the television when its on, but has no picture. He asked me about the cordoroy novella, a project in pieces. A book, its cover was made out of cordoroy material, that began with empty pages, only to be fiulled with entries from anyone and everyone we could get to write in it. It was a documentation of what we felt was real. a depiction of the every day occurrences during that period in our lives, but done so in a way that poked fun at the mundane existence that is. It poked fun and even pulled excitement from mundanity.

I found that novella and the following is a piece written by Ole Neo. The date is uncertain:

bold as love.

Mulch Member ( Since 1892) Schlitt Blatt Ham. (Framhamington. The Republic of Westport)
Demise of Western arrogance. The Disintegration of the mental kapitol; though inherent to our warped minds. An ethno centric prentension abolished, made obsolete, untenable. The tired and rickety Superstructure collapses. Who though t it would happen during our time?

The factories of Archogonia churn out the products of our demise. The zombies in the streets walk without a conscience, assigned to their posts. A civilzation is crushed by the heels of Doc Martens. A culture vomits itself like death choking on its vile diet of gummi worms, 'polo clothing,' romance novels and worthless labour. The aptitude for thought is stifling, the jokes of mental activity is squeezed out of the bitter liquid of humans. the elixir is formed and is the intoxicant of the industrial barons. THey drink to the stupidity of their slaves, laughing savagely at the indecent achievement, quaffing the brain brew indignantly. The greasy solution rolls down Rolf's chin and stains Armani suit. He scoffs as he rips the jacket off and crams it into a garbage canister. the canister shuts itself up, mechanically, and a low, deadened explosion is felt for a few feet surrounding it. No one averts their eyes or tries to avoid the situation. This is disposal.

Rolf's Acquaintance for the evening is startled, and a little afraid, but she's good at hiding her real emotions; perhaps there is little to hide. "Care for a gulp, Rebecca?" he inquires, " It's really quite invigorating. Ther thoughts move so much faster. They're clear and distinct and I've never forgotten a thought I've had while under the influence." He chokes down another high-ball glass full of the pulpy, incandescent substance. His eyes, oh, his eyes. They seemed to have turned gray for just one moment. Entirely gray. Pupils gone, no whites, just gray. He came out of, his face contorts and his teeth show as if he were gnawing his way out of some invisible bag, as if he had to scream to escape. Like a satiated cannibal and that of a necrophiliac engaged in a graveyard tryst. She wanted to run. He wanted her to beg him for her life. But maybe he'd come out of it. Maybe he'd spare her. Maybe she should start guzzling the brain brew to catch up to him.

posted by Hog 11:57 AM