C-12

I'd never been here before. Didn't matter. Got it instantly. The same place spread out over great distances. You take the same knowledge of walking everywhere you go. Here it's all the same words: "that", "please", "thank you". The gestures I've acquired work here as elsewhere. The same thousand people iterated infinitely in circles and circles around the globe. I've never been here. Doesn't matter. I'll pick it up instantly. I've read the same books across these distances. These thoughts have occurred all over, at so many different points and times in space, but exist only here ever. This page or this head. Didn't matter. Never got it. Somewhere out there's a beach. Somewhere out there's a mountain. Somewhere there's moments. Those are the only things that aren't the same as all these people, all these places. Each atom is interchangeable. It's the atomic moments where difference emerges. Assemblies and arrays of singularity. All things being equal, this is the first and only non-repeating time this moment.

An update on the mushroom living under my testicles.

His name is Hal. Doc says it cain't be helped. "Some peoples has moles and some peoples are Italian and some peoples have mushrooms growing under they testes." I guess this is what it means to be an adult. Learning to live with the things you'd rather not even know you could even have to live with. Like baiting your basement for rats each winter. Or having to shoot your brother's dog. I'm sure the mushroom wishes things had turned out better for him, too, though Hal ain't one to complain.

Snowing outside. Light and fluffy. Come Tuesday, Hal and I are going ice fishing. Gonna catch us a mess of ice fish.

I've got a gift card for a coffee

And it began a prolific period of the Author's life; a fiction, but the honesty of destruction nonetheless. It seemed, so it was, to radiate from a clear-stomached well-spring of possibility, "oh ha ha, the well-springs of creativity. Our young fertile intellects!" A joke, of course, but find something spectacular that isn't. He put onto paper for no one for the first time. The acceptance that thought was a fairytale. Not to write but to dance cosmically with energetic language. Laughing. "There really is nothing," he said into the room. The stereo in the corner. "Everything's always been a fight, and it will continue to be, but right now, I'm looking under your skirt universe, and baby I'm turned on!" The Reader throws/throughs the piece down in disgust, "What a pervert!" But having liked at least part of the sentiment picks it back up again. "Oh this just isn't me anymore." "Of course not!" snarls the page, "and(nothing((is)just))like you))." "You're still feeling clever aren't you? Oh-ho no my lad. Really GIVE UP!" The Reader at this point flings the pages across the room, makes a lunge at understanding, but ultimately huffs, "Oh you're getting clever again, you see. You should never have eaten. It turned everything back to stone again. Boooring!" The slap of an arm knocks it off, but to no avail. The Author slumps back in his head. He sighs, digests his food dejected, and takes up again a consciousness of language and its trappings; operating it, not dancing it any longer. "I'm through!" "You're out the other end you bastard! You said you'd never change!" -the Reader, suddenly an ardent supporter, "Don't give up let(s) go!" A dark. A murk. No, unfortunately it's the light of day. Remind yourself that you're a young man and take nothing to heart, Someone said something to you once. Remember? No.1 Rule? Have fun. "It's okay you can interact off the corners of the page." "Would never fault a guy for finding out. Hey, he's just making sure here. C'mon guys let's go." Therefore, nothing to take in for a spell. Remember all the things that aint no more (remember the Civil War?) "Yeah some of em." But it was never about theft.

from Last december twenty FIFth

Rorschach cedars. Shuffle of corduroy. Mining the stormies. Mining the fields. What kind of bird? A familial bird. Hilarious. Bill Drummond yes please. Oh, sure. Max martin me- a drink name, or a dance move. // the importance of a conversation over breakfast. Of a lady on the couch. How to get fiction to be morally (tricky tricky.. 19^th century!) as well as imaginatively instructive- how to get at humans. How not to stew in absurdity and concrete. Somethings that make me uneasy and shuttered-down: “healing”, deconstructionism, swears, words, any manner of “releasing the goddess within”, Freud-on-religion, a lack of eye-contact, plastic-surgery, gems, much television, the internet, the lack of the internet, charging for services, paying for goods, not know the words to my questions, processed food, cheap alcohol, bad teaching, chakras, utopian community plans, tourism, exhaling, cherry tomatoes from the store, hearing other people have sex. What a rubber-band ball I’ve got my memories encased in.. I’m the smells and spiky one, the one that’s softless, nurch and hagalow. Strongly believe that what Actually is Happening has much more to do with how we hold our woven into the fascia, but that shit’s hard to sell and should be. People won’t respond to ‘gentleness, gentleness’ and they shouldn’t because it’s stupid. Wonder about Wilbur’s idea of clenching the tightened part before release- to take responsibility for it, to embody the abstract held and own it. Quien eh oh gray and helmUT, flags and post-men. Kathy Chekovitch an everday magical future of woman and Farnaz Anita Jessica(?) Wife. Wife, do I mean it? Tantra-burnsing and exorcism of ignorance, of heldness, of sorrow to come back to, to come back to… to have a little healthy shame. Neither asthetic nor ascetic nor tired. Nope bored nope yes. Will it be a long time yet until I plant my own tomatoes? Im burnt so fulp. Cats and turtles. Children. Old age. The way the ice looks when the puddle isn’t frozen all the way through. Shock at the continued working of the world. I’ve been insatiable for days now. Food, need more foods. Collecting wooden crates from the Arab markets that still have bits of rotten turnips and bok choy in ‘em. Collecting abide-ment. Unbearable and perfect. Unassertive. I paralyzeabllllllle woman. A Woman! Some slowness. Won’t lean but questions yes. And cleannesses. Carelessness is my big One. New York Times on lack of academic positions and funds. A pull towards nowhere in particular. A mind like a sieve. A habit of leaving the flowers to die. Hallelujah. Fuck it! The day that I realized I must submit to all urges was a Tuesday. I know it was a Tuesday because. Whoa whoa whoa. about how manifestation and working with subtle and gross energies is how the tantricas appeal to the Tibetans and how they both keep them both all alive. Everyone’s welcome, it’s all graded meditation. All these hierarchies of spirits. All this esoteric initiation and confusing demands of a harsh climate and land…. It’s all bullshit and lore and good and fine stories around SOUP. Agency detection and attribution, psychological and cognitive projection, there are lots of theories that can overlay on this shit. But clarity? What am I clarity clearly? The Buddhists stress their roots as coming from India NO SHITS- what do the commoners think? Is this a point of pride? Inherited from a military people? Oh I love him- oh but he is so little and large. Agency. Children. The Germans. Tamil. Purge purge purge and fuck me creation only confusion calm. I’m staying afloat. There’s so much going on and I check out so fast. every question in the air along with every dankness and strangle. and animals and collections and I wonder if ill float forever. Well. Wellness. The word question ‘flourishing’ comes to mind. David Foster Wallace and purge redemption through construction, through illumination, through meditations on att(/in)tention. On needing to tell a particular story. On needing to show a particular way of being in the world- are there possibilities? Are there ways not to disengage? Can we stay here? Vibrating? Into the light? Non-fiction? I am scared and suspect I want to be more of a woman. That maybe I want less to create than to share. That way of drowning that is just bending over farther and farther into the well even though there may be a toe always on the ground outside so your head is still upsidedown-under. Endnotes. Empafiction. You know how after when you’re lying all still and the blood’s metronoming through your hips so hard you really in three dimensions? I mean, like, how your thighs and calves and cheeks are really Round? I wanna say something about that too. About those kites whipping fast in the wind out from my pelvis and about that one freckle and about, yeah, about terror but about the place that we come back to. That Hall of Artifacts- our own (bodies) as well as what we find on the street and in rubbish bins rolled out to the street on nights and rummaged through by raccoons and bums and characters in my father’s novel and imagination and past.

Never Scene One Before

A whole damn scene: the boat tied, a committed fog, gray heroes of old trees, and that crystal lake reflecting back the sky and all its constituents and everything else you'd ever needed to know. Then the buddies start cannonballing in and the dinner's already cold, and you aint got but no reception, and it's suddenly a chord: Wail Wail Wail, We're all Wind and Hail!

A partial transcript from the documentary film "Bathtub Slush: The Gus "Gut-Slusher" Lyman Story," pt. 1

[Scene: day time, late fall, overcast and grey. Gus "Gut-Slusher" Lyman walks along the Fox Street sidewalk heading toward the Franklin Arterial intersection. His dirty band-aided left hand trails along the ruined fence separating the sidewalk from Kennedy Park. When a black youth trots through the park kicking a soccer ball over the patchy dying grass, Gus whistles loudly.]

Gus: Kid! Hey kid!

[Gus whistles again. The kid does not respond and is gone.]

Gus: I used to draw water in this part of town. Now I don't draw shit. Big Time Money likes to say that me selling meth up at Waynefleet is some step up in the world? Upward mobility or some shit? Nah, man. I almost got my ass kicked down here by a flashmob of black youths. With hammers and shit? Fuck, man. That was the day shit got real for the Gut-Slusher.

[At the intersection with the Franklin Arterial, Gus looks both ways, darts into the crosswalk, and gets hit by a Budget van.]

Gus: Oh good!

[Some traffic stops. The driver--a skinny white guy with a scarf and black-rimmed glasses--gets out to help Gus to his feet.]

Driver: Are you okay?

Gus [weeping]: I just wanted some tabouli!

[Close in on the Whole Foods store looming in the background.]

Gus: Just some fucking tabouli! Look at me! Look at me! I just pissed my fucking self!

[Fade out the sound of traffic and Gus crying. Voice-over of Gus as the scene fades to black: "Big Time Money ruined my life."]

Private Wealth Properties

I woke up this morning with the understanding that money (really big money) is a property of sound. All this needless suffering! Just listen to the Beatles losers.

-- Wayne Bergs. Tax Attourney.

NEWS IN BRIEF:::
(Valparaiso, IN) Sound can, in certain circumstances, actually create wealth. See: "Billy Joel: Rollin' In It! October 13, 1993."

taken from the Valparaiso Conspirer. October 14, 1993

Notification That the Previous Notification is Stupid

We at Big Time Money know that some people are jealous of how awesome we are. That's why we don't discriminate. Anyone can join the Big Time Money family and make big time money using our patented BTM-technology of pyramids and stuff. Yet some people remain jealous of how awesome we are, even after they've joined the family and are, in theory, just as awesome as we are awesome. We here at BTM Industries have a name for such perpetual jealousers. We call them "assholes." Andrew Lyman, CEO and Founder of that Edsel/Lepanto Organ Farm thing, is one of these assholes. What's the deal, Andy? Why you got to play us like that?

To prove our hypothesis, the R&D department here at BTM interviewed Gus "the Gut-Slusher" Lyman, said-asshole's cousin. Gus is the one who introduced Andrew to the BTM family. Now he regrets it. In the words of the Slusher himself, "Man, that dude's a dick."

See?

Furthermore, we're pretty sure Andrew Lyman's wife is a beard to cover up his latent heterosensuality. Give it up, Mr. Lyman. Face what you are. And make a profit while you're at it!

With our warmest regards this holiday season,

Big Time Money (dictated but not read)

Notification of Take-Down Notice

This post is to notify the owner/ operator of handjobshandjobshandjobs.blogspot.com that we intend to inform them of our immediate intention to request the removal of the post entitled, But Don't Take Our Word For It... from this website. The testimonial by Andrew Lyman, president and CEO of Edsel/Lepanto Organ Farm Industries is a blatant infringement on my own life. As Andrew Lyman myself, I know these facts to be absolutely true, and therefore, in direct conflict with my marriage. And while my marriage may be (publicly) precariously shelved between our broken dot matrix printer and our newer Cannon Ink Jet, it should be of no concern to the United States Government. Please do not sue us, our wife is very nervous about public speaking.

Regards,
-Andrew Lyman, president and CEO of Edsel/Lepanto Organ Farm Industries

But Don't Take Our Word For It...

"Just three months ago, I was poorer than shit. I was giving handjobs for foodstamps down under the State Street Bridge. Now I live on a bitchin'-ass houseboat down under the State Street Bridge. Guess who's getting all the handjobs now? Thanks Big Time Money!"
--Dave Marshall (Not that Dave Marshall. The other Dave Marshall)

"Hi. Good morning. My Name is Jamal Walker Turner. I use to smoke crack-cocaine. I use to have HIV. Now I got full-blown AIDS. Thanks to Big Time Money's 6-level inmestment thing, 32 of my closest friends and family now also got full-blown AIDS. Thank you Big Time Money!"
--Jamal Walker Turner, founder of the Jamal Walker Turner Foundation for Giving Y'Ass AIDS.

"Big Time Money helped me and my wife trade in our good-for-nothing son for a half-dozen hardworking orphans from, uh, somewhere south. Belize? Sure, Belize. Furthermore, with the accumulated dividends, we bought a jacuzzi! Fuck yeah! Thanks Big Time Money."
--The Cholak Family Council for the Improvement of the Cholak Family Council.

"Before my illegal organ harvesting operation took off, I was poorer than that guy up there who used to be poorer than shit. I was trading handjobs for other, less-impressive handjobs. That's no currency! Plus inflation...things were looking bleak. But then my cousin Gus turned me onto Big Time Money (Gus used to sell bathtub meth to the kids down in Kennedy Park. Now he sells bathtub meth to the kids down at Waynefleet) . Using Big Time Money's patented system of multiple false returns, I now buy and sell kidneys in fifteen counties in the Northern New England region. Remember those music videos back in the 80s where some hot chick would roll around naked in a pile of money? Imagine rolling around naked in a heap of illegally traded livers. It's fucking hot! Thanks Big Time Money."
--Andrew Lyman, president and CEO of Edsel/Lepanto Organ Farm Industries