Michael Kindt's Blog, page 472
September 19, 2011
I Remember How I Got These Scars
Remember that time we got chased off Custer Mountain by the sheriff's deputy because it was a slow night and he had nothing better to do? We were sitting up there on the huge illuminated CUSTER sign, out of weed. We had a few 40s is all. It was like Monday night or something, in the Fall, and down below in our hometown we could actually see the Summer dying. It was getting quieter and quieter. We could see it happening down there before us.
Custer Mountain, if you remember right, is owned by the city and classified as a park, even though it's densely forested and as wild as where the wild things are. Except for the sign, which they built when we were little tiny kids, there's nothing up there. Even the road going up takes a great deal of generosity and charity to call it a road. It's gnarly and bouncy with great big chunks of granite in it and is steeper than a staircase.
No one goes up there but young people and we're never up to anything good. Remember the cave down the back of it? Well, it wasn't really a cave, just a house-size hole in the side of another mountain, one without a name and a sign, a dark mountain. Remember the keggers there, the brutal hike with a 16-gallon keg?
We weren't breaking the sign or anything, just sitting on it. I was on the R, I remember. We watched our town and talked writing and art and music and how we should haul a tv up here someday and throw it the fuck down because we were so anti-television. Things are sure different today. Remember how free we felt?
We got a ride up there by Steve, I think, who just dropped us off with our beers in the trees black as death. We hiked the rest of the way up through the fragrance of ponderosa pine so thick we had to wipe it away from our faces, our hearts pounding beneath chests nipping out from mountain chill.
The best way to go back down, by boot, was straight down, right down the face. Remember how fucking steep it was? You had to keep cool and grab trees to avoid running because once you got running there was no stopping and at night that was a bad, bad thing, a painful thing.
We were introspective and philosophical up there that night, and young. God, we were young. The dewy sweetness of newly adult, the span before us all we could imagine.
Then we saw the lights, bouncing up the road over to the right. Someone was coming and we knew it was a cop in his truck. We just knew.
"Jesus fucking christ," one of us said. "It's a pig, I bet."
We snickered and waited for him. The hike to the very top where we were was no easy stroll. There was some climbing involved. It was very steep. We waited for him because we wanted him to work and we watched glimpses of his flashlight shooting all over the forest like nervous lightning as he struggled closer and closer. We even heard him grunting a few times, remember?
Hilarious.
Soon he was only a few yards away and down the face the went, running anyway, laughing and laughing. I remember our echoes bouncing back up to him where he was no doubt cursing and bitching and oozing his way back to his truck like the disappointed slime he was.
We ran anyway and got separated. We ran anyway and became alone. I was going fast, too fast, and I knew it. It was dark and I had my hands out in front of me so I wouldn't faceplant right into a tree.
Almost to the bottom, and I went flying. I was airborn and shitting my pants. I had considered the possibility of crashing, but not of flying, not of having the very ground beneath me disappear.
I flew for only a split second, I'm sure, but it felt like minutes. I landed on my back so hard my wind was knocked free and I laid there gasping for it. Above me I could see only a little patch of sky, a round patch.
I'd found a hole.
I remember laying there and laying there, even after my wind came back. I even relaxed a little. There was pain, but nothing I couldn't handle. These were my woods and they couldn't hurt me. Not really.
I moved my arms and legs, happy to not be paralyzed. I listened to the wind showering through the needles. Finally I got up and climbed out. My back was wet, soaked even, and it chilled me pleasantly.
There was only a little ways to go and I went down it leisurely. At French Creek, I took a right, heading west to home. The creek went along the edge of town and I followed it, hidden by the brush and the night. The cop probably wasn't looking for us. In fact, he probably didn't even know who we were, but I didn't want to run into him.
When the town ran out, I left the creek and headed out over the fields, hoping for no buffalo. I lived two miles out, on Harback Lane, in a little white house with my woman Mindy.
The fields were nice, open and nice, with stronger wind that bit hard and made me shiver. The wetness on my back had gone down to my ass and I was downright cold. The grass under my boots was grazed flush and grayed by the moonlight.
I hope Mindy built a fire, I remember thinking.
After the fields came the yards of Harback Lane, little square plots with swingsets and sandboxes and dying flowers and dying gardens. I snuck across them like a cat and was home.
Mindy was not amused. "What happened? Why are you covered in blood?"
"Blood? I thought it was water."
"Take off your shirt."
She bitched as she cleaned me up, dabbing at me with cotton balls and warm rags and alcohol I couldn't drink.
Later, after a shower, I tried to fuck her, but she was still pissed. "One day you won't come home," she said.
One day.
So I went and sat at the little kitchen table, feeling the heat from the fire. I remember how strong I was, how good it felt to be in pain. I took a notebook down from the stack and wrote the poetry I always burned at dawn.
September 18, 2011
I propose The Auto-Fellatios.
An award show that gives out an award to the best award show of the 685 award shows the celebrobots put on each year.
snuffboxisdead:
Here is my fancy resume for a little vegan...
Here is my fancy resume for a little vegan place I just found out is hiring. It's only a dishwashing job but it's one of my favorite places. I don't usually make a mini-zine as an application, so yeah. They're awesome. (The title is kinda dull but I don't want there to be any confusion.)
This is beyond cool. You are so fucking hired.
I'm really sorry to have stolen your post... Didn't know it was yours, I just saw it on Facebook and re-posted it. You have precisest followers I ever saw :/
Haha…no worries, man. That post went all over the net. Plus, it's a joke and the nature of jokes is to be shared :)
warholandliza replied to your post: We finally have "throwback" pops around here.
these...
these are very popular in Cali.
And they should be. Alas, I live in the middle of nowhere, so had to wait. You know, the industry that builds High FUCKtose Corn Syrup is actually trying to get the name changed because so many people don't want to eat it anymore. People, these days, are more and more demanding to eat food and it's very troublesome for the factories that have been constructing our food-like substances. I wrote an article about the name change . An edited, less satirical version was published by Cagle, here.
We finally have "throwback" pops around here.
You know, the ones sweetened with that bizarre substance our grandparents called "sugar"?
I can now go entirely High FUCKtose Corn Syrup free, despite my weakness for Dr. Pepper. Fuck yeah.
Waning Beneath The Night Sky Glare
There's stars out but no moon
the sky seems empty or lonely like
a clown funeral attended only by mimes
or cowboys and indians getting along
It sparkles but is blank like the eyes of a politician
when promising a lie during a debate discussion
that rattles and hums in the ovoid of understanding
in the lacking of angular momentum. Or like
false positive truth serum soda sliding
down your throat, the cold jizz of a deadened demented lover
It's a curved vault of black high above me
freezing and weighing down
inaccessible and far
close oppressive as every stupid rule (and
every smart one too)
heavy, haunted
following me with cackling implications of Nothing
I haven't been on Tumblr since Friday
and I come back to find someone I had followed for a really long time has passed on. It's very shocking and sad. I didn't really "know" her. We just followed each other and spoke via Tumblr a handful of times—always light-hearted stuff, nothing deep or interpersonal.
She was so young, 29. Wow.
I don't believe in death, not for the one who passes. Death is only real for those left here, left behind. To think that death is The End is unscientific. It's a violation of the Law of Conservation of Energy. The total amount of energy in an isolated system (the Universe) remains constant. Therefore, energy cannot be created or destroyed, but only transformed or transferred.
There is no greater energy in the Universe than Life itself.
May you enjoy the next step, Amanda.
