01. sun and park
Love, art and beauty will be yours when you embrace the yellow in
your environment. Greet the day with fresh-squeezed citrus juice.
Keep a pitcher in the cooler for those languid lazy afternoons in our
service-oriented society. If the juice is bitter because of the lack
of rain due to global warming, add honey.
Do your gardening in the morning and your watering at night. It is
time to bend down and pull up the weeds. Throw them into the compost
pile. It’s gold next year for you and me. After weeding, fertilize.
Go ahead and pee on your garden if you haven’t been doing so already.
Your sunflowers will be especially thankful.
If you were smart, you would have done as I told you earlier this
year and sown a row of Mary Jane next to the tomatoes. She will help
keep the bugs off the nightshade as well as keep you spiritually
connected in the upcoming omnipresent heat. As you while away the day
avoiding the blazing sun, think about the human condition and your
place in it, and don’t forget to treat yourself to some ice cream or
a Golden Delicious.
Take a pause to space out on a trip for the coming year. Since those
in the know predict that the year belongs to Mars, I advise you to
avoid taking trips in automobiles, especially on Sundays, from now
until your departure.
Although this year has already been quite tumultuous, two more crises
in health, home or love do still await you around the summer and fall
equinoxes. Thus, one is about to befall you. They won’t hurt as badly
if you go with the flow, because change is the only constant in life.
Floss your teeth daily and make sure the phone bill is paid to avoid
unnecessary complications. Count your blessings and appreciate what
is around you. Celebrate your losses. However trivial, or however
great the challenges may be, or you may make them, stay in touch with
the Mother. Do not forget that wherever you go you take yourself.
Lisa was reading Oprah T. Eunist, a column that gave practical tips
for everyday needs as well as spiritual advice for the cosmic realm
and beyond. She had wandered off from the launderette to sit in the
park. On the way, she had hung a few self-made flyers on telephone
poles and stopped off at June’s Choice Market to purchase an El Jay’s
fruit cocktail, a vanilla That’s It, an apple, a bottle of Sierra
Gold mineral water, a Sutters Weekly and a bag of peanuts for the
squirrels.
Parked, lotus position, amid the camellia bushes, she had managed
to finish off her ice cream patty before it melted and dripped onto the
Weekly spread out in front of her on the yellowing grass. She opened
and closed her jaw, making sticky sounds with her tongue. The patty
had left her oral cavity dry. She tore open her carton of 100 % pure
El Jay’s fruit cocktail and while guzzling gazed into the distance.
Her eyes alit on an overfilled trash bin beneath a lemon tree and she
heard the morning train cutting through the Grid.
A question approached and she hitched the ride. Before long, her
train of thought was headed towards destinations uncharted. Ease of
being allowed her to disembark, explore an area in question, come up
with an alternative plan, change directions and restart travel at will.
How long will it take before natural events have spun completely out
of control? Water is scarce. Energy is expensive. And every month now
brings catastrophes. Storms, tidal waves, floods, earthquakes,
avalanches, hurricanes, tornadoes, wildfires and exploding volcanoes.
Glaciers are melting. Islands are being wiped off the face of the
planet. People have to be evacuated and relief has to be sent.
I wonder if we have enough reserve genes to evolve in time. Flapping
my arms for a lifetime is not going to give me or the next generation
the ability to fly. Maybe designer genetic kids do represent hope.
Maybe the spirits could tell me.
The pesky flies that were buzzing around pulled the brake on her
thought train. They alit momentarily, scrambled around, and flew off
to another patch of exposed skin to repeat the process. Jiggling her
leg, wiggling her foot and waving an arm around in order to shoo them
away she sighed out loud. Ach, the problem of living in paradise.
As usual these insects became more insistent when shunned,
which consequently attracted others, all wanting to sample her body
fluids. She looked around to see what the cause of the infiltration might be.
There were no discarded picnic products nor doggy poop in her
immediate vicinity. She therefore concluded that the attraction must
be her perfume. She was wearing banana peel oil, a beauty product she
had purchased at Big Mona’s Fast Trash. Big Mona had told her that it
was a natural love potion and stimulated passion. The label counselled
the wearer against using it with anything honey based, and disclaimed
any responsibility for misunderstandings between humans and the
insect world. The warning did make sense but she believed that it was
as much their world as hers and that all living things had the right
to buzz around where they wanted.
She stared at a fly that had landed on her upper arm.
Remaining as still as possible, she watched the fly run around,
repeatedly vomit on her skin and suck up its gastric juices with its
delicately fluted mouth. Hmmm. Putrefaction. It’s organic.
After taking a sip of her fruit cocktail, she got back on track as
her train entered a tunnel. If only everyone could be psycho-analyzed.
People displace and project just in order to be. It’s hard
to get to the end of it all. Believing in this means adhering to that.
Spacing out on the speed at which her train was travelling, while
neither coming nor going, she sat up straight, crossed her legs in
front of her, and took one long and two short breaths. While
repeating the breathing exercise learned at a stress management
course at the commune, she centered the residual energy in her lower
spine. Deliberately, she began to sway and sang the first three lines
of a folk song, letting the tone resonate in her head:
You are the one,
everything and all,
sweet number one.
Squinting and staring out across the park, rocking to the rhythm,
Lisa saw the goddess in all her glory appear in the redwood grove in
the far corner of the park. She floated dressed in pink and yellow
and seemed to be pulsating. Soon, however, the natural world once
again overwhelmed her nervous system and the apparition vanished.
A fly landed on Lisa’s cheek and instinctively neared her nasal cavity
and attempted to enter. She gave a heavy snort to blow it away and
turned her attention to the handful of squirrels scurrying about her,
coming ever closer to the bag of peanuts at her side.
She wiped her lips on the back of her forearm and blew her
nose in a cotton handkerchief, produced from the oversized pocket
of her yellow apron. Lisa was against using paper whether it was toilet,
kitchen or facial. The idea of removing body fluids with a man-made
product weighed heavily on the conscious part of her brain. She folded
the handkerchief, put it back in her pocket and pulled out an unusually
large yellow string that had wadded in the corner during the wash.
She unraveled the wad between her fingers and picked up a peanut.
Before feeding one to the begging squirrels, she took a good look
at its structure: Oblong. Tucked in the middle. Earthy matte-brown
shell. Dimples. Easy to open. Ready to eat. The perfect balance.
Two nuts nesting inside, in matching kaput mortum raincoats.
Bitter skin. Tasty meat. Excellent on their own, roasted, salted,
in a casserole, or creamed.
The peanut. A staff of life.
She tempted the nervous squirrels to take it from her hand
but when they came closer flung it away. The cute little beggars
scattered to look for the tossed tidbit. She returned to a lotus
position, arms resting on her knees, holding the string between
both hands and repeated her breathing exercises. While starring
out across the park wondering where she would take herself she
unconsciously tied the yellow piece of string onto her left forearm.
Heat waves emanated from the black tar of the road.
The bells of St. Francis rang the half hour. It was almost noon and already
hotter than hell. A shopping cart bumped rhythmically along the concrete
sidewalk bordering the park. An obese woman in pink polyester clam
diggers and a yellow blouse trudged by in the distance.
She took another sip of the El Jay’s, the natural sourness puckering
her lips. Reaching into her apron pocket, she took out the
butterscotch tin containing her accoutrements and took out a pre-
rolled joint and a book of matches. After glancing around to confirm
that she would be able to smoke in peace, she lit the joint with a
wooden match from Joe Sun’s Swedish Steak House and discarded it
much the same as she had the peanut. The squirrels were confused.
After taking a long drag from the joint, she leafed through the
Sutters Weekly until her eye was grabbed by the lifeless face of a
man, powdered and painted, and partially framed by a white wig. Still
in lotus position, she bent forward and propped up her chin. Another
puff of the joint, and she was absorbed in the adjoining article.
Death of a Martin
by K.Y.
Martin Griess. Conservative. Paranoid. Demi-religious. Money-loving.
Organized. Punctual. Efficient.
Martin Griess voted republican, convinced that the other party only
wanted to raise his taxes. He believed it was right to take away
funding for education, the arts, social programs and jobs. Martin
Griess couldn’t give a shit about being PC. He mistrusted all
products labelled organic, conferred no rights on animals, had no
desire to get back to nature, and was convinced that all illegal
drugs were wrong. At the same time, he popped healthy handfuls of
prescription pills without qualms.
He was paranoid about being a victim so he lived in a gated
community and made his wife drive a military vehicle. His fear nurtured
his hate. He wanted to harm others, but unwilling to do it himself,
he supported broad application of the death penalty.
Martin Griess was a holiday Christian, seeing church as a
way to be in with the crowd, and performed perfunctory acts of kindness to
lobby favors. He believed in a Christian division of men and women
and the sanctity of foetuses. In short: Pro-life. Pro-death.
Martin Griess loved money, the making of it, the saving of it, and
the investing of it to make more. Martin Griess loved to talk about
himself in connection with money. I, me, mine. In order to
communicate with Martin, the pronouns you, your and yours had to be
used in connection with money, possessions and/or status or he would
not listen.
His choice of cars and houses reflected this obsession. Martin
changed automobiles every three years and addresses every six. He
spent most of his time, however, in his car travelling from one
appointment to another. Based on wanton research, this author has
come to the conclusion that the car-penis-ratio theory is true.
His leisure time at home only allowed for a bite to eat while
watching sports or the news, sleep and basic hygiene. His marriage
assumed purely presentational purposes. When the children were old
enough, he started to play the field and had a string of mistresses.
Martin also liked to bowl, the only other sport he played.
Martin barely made it through high school. A football jock, he was
voted most popular guy in the high school yearbook and king of the
senior ball. After graduation, he married the queen. He entered
Fresno State University on a sports scholarship, but due to his chronic
allergies he was forced to quit sports in his junior year.
The wheels greased by his frat-boy connections, Martin dropped out
of Fresno State in his third year and slipped into a comfortable job at
the Madd & Son Advertising Agency. He soon had a list of clients
whose names were featured on various public buildings, and became
known for his creative and innovative methods of using corporate
sponsoring to take control of local cultural events.
It was while working on a deal to save the Raisin Festival by having
Realife underwrite the event in exchange for exclusive advertising
rights for their various agro-products that Martin was headhunted
to work exclusively for the company. His first project there was
a bid to underwrite the costs of the Fresno Community Theater
in exchange for renaming it the Realife Cultural Center and
assuming control over its cultural program.
Soon after Martin started working for Realife, he was asked to
participate in a variety show at the Young Millionaires Gala being
held in Fresno to honor Mr. Thorndorn, founder and chief CEO of
Realife who was forty-nine and soon would no longer be a young
millionaire. As many readers probably already know from press
reports, it was at the buffet after the show, where Martin still
dressed as the king of France and thirty-six millionaires died.
Lisa raised her upper body, straightened her spine and
stretched out her legs. While wiggling them in front of her to stimulate
circulation, she grabbed the bottle of Sierra Gold and twisted open
the cap. The bubbly water fizzled and squirted out and onto her
apron, and she yelped in feigned surprise.
She took care, although, not to let the joint, which had gone out
between her fingers, get wet. She had forgotten to take regular
puffs, having been so engulfed in the article. With a wet hand, she
patted her neck and face and then took a sip of the water, gargled
for few seconds and swallowed.
The squirrels darted in and out of her personal bubble begging
temptingly with their cuteness to be fed. They had been running about
the whole time she had been reading, so she tossed them the rest of
the peanuts and watched amused as they scrambled in every direction
searching for their little staff of life.
She resumed her yoga position and relit the joint. What sounded like
a Ford Galaxy was approaching, and she glanced at the street to
confirm her aural impression. How embarrassing to know the make of an
automobile by the sound of its engine, she thought and made a mental
note to take an up close look at it when she was finished reading.
Martin left behind a wife and two children. Shortly after his death
his son, an A.C.N.E artist, moved abroad, and his daughter, a
prominent Mary Kate sales representative, relocated to another state.
His widow, Dee Griess, has settled in Chico with the man she
accompanied to the Young Millionaires Gala.
What drove Martin to be the best damn adman up and through
the valley and ultimately led to his death? Why did the man go along to get
along? Why was he willing to sell his soul to obtain only ephemeral
satisfaction? In trying to put together a clearer picture of this
normal man and his attributes, one only comes up against further
questions that will remain forever unanswerable. Why did he accept
the kidnappers’ candy? Did he ever stop beating his wife? How wide was
his hole?
Martin was an inmate in a corporate prison, together with all those
who are locked in by their desire to attain money and all that it
brings. It is a world of expense accounts, status slavery and mutual
back scratching, a world where Martins at least believe that they can
choose their own dehumanizing labor.
Martins help keep the big wheel churning and benefit from its output.
They are certainly never ones to bite that hand that fed them. They
accept their position in the pyramid of power and do what is
required. They actually like what they have to do. They participate
willingly in the system of friendly fascism. Today, Martins are
considered normal.
Now a Martin is dead. Long live the free world!
Well. If that ain’t something.
The joint had burned down to a tiny roach that she pinched between
her thumb and index fingernails to take the last drag. She flicked
the remaining butt to the sky, watched a squirrel go after it and
thanked the goddess for getting her high.
After taking the last sip of mineral water, she stuffed the bottle
into her cloth bag. While gathering the rest of her litter for later
recycling, she noticed a fuzzy blur sitting on a bench at the other
side of the park. As she concentrated on the blur, a gentle inner
rhythm took hold and she started swaying her upper body and singing.
I chi, you be.
So to, you do.
Peace and love and happiness.
She raised her hands, with her middle and index fingers extended,
shook them in the air, and then hugged herself. Back on track.
Sitting watching the squirrels running past her, she spoke, “Here
kitty, kitty, kitty. Pussy farm deluxe is coming soon and it’s time
to make things grow.”
After a few deep breaths she regained objectivity and focused on
the one squirrel still hanging around to beg for a nut. In a desperate
search for one more, she stood up and emptied her cloth bag. Nothing
was at all appropriate except for the apple, so she fumbled around in
her apron pocket, located the penny she had just found at the
Laundromat and tossed it. At least it was the right size. The furry
critter scuffled up, sniffed, dug a hole nearby and then buried the
penny. Task completed, it ran away.
Hmm. Maybe someday money will grow on trees.
