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Subject: Summer under the hue of the Red Planet
Date: Thu, 30 Oct 2003 03:04:49 -0800
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===================
Summer under the hue of the Red PlanetFirst Draft:
Summer under the hue of the Red Planet by Frank G. Fowlkes
The accounts of that summer under the Red Planet where a woman was
forever buried alive beneath a Colorado mountainous night for turning
away from his love are conflicting. The human side, not to mention the
buried woman's battered and bruised side, is all but forgotten but for
the muddled, if not counterfeit some say, tell of Iamghost, and the
numerical reconstructions are inaccurate compared to the sum of the
world today. And if that wasn't enough, an investigation team has
supposedly uncovered Iamghost's true chronicle of that summer where
the interfering bitch was finally buried once and for all, a couple of
daydream sleepers were awakened, and the enemy's authoritative bluff
your thoughts are ours' finally challenged.'
A Colorado night's campfire dies to amber coals, and the wind ceases
to stir. A pine tree's sap oozes around the curled body of a black ant
who strayed too far from gathering crumbs for Kings, a Queen, and
their flesh, and a cloaked figure moves closer to the red glow of the
campfire. The cloak figure tells the few of us still awake that the
only known copy of Summer under the hue of the Red Planet' was
destroyed but before it was destroyed by the High Council to protect
the sentimental types, the copy was read by a small group and
memorized using a complex system of mnemonics. He then tells us that
it will be our choice to either memorize the strange tell or let it
slip way like everything else in this life. Suddenly, an older man,
and his three squaw women, one of them heard smacking on some cooked
meat, stands up and leaves, their descending outlines disappearing
from the starry night's background. Strange groups of colored knotted
strings are removed from the figure's cloak and wrapped around his
thin fingers. And the man's hands randomly rotate left, right, up, and
down, and, after awhile of watching the cloak figure strangely
maneuver the colored strings, I finally heard him say, "so the yarn
begins."
"The love-struck summer was lost but not the Red Planet's hue,"
Anonymous, March or die, 1996.
Follow the uninterrupted progression, and you will find the truth.
The night's fiery red planet is setting before the breaking sunrise
that will never come to light the ground above a dead woman's shallow
grave, and the last rays of the red hue shine on the suicide squad
gathering together for a prayer before entering enemy territory. They
were not the physical territories we solely think of today, land and
flesh, but territories of mind and future. An enemy that was not
definable but sensed occupying perishable vessels with knives and
smiles was preventing the mind, and the mind's future, from becoming
triumphant over both flesh and property. The enemy not only wanted
more flesh and property but also expected anyone that wasn't an
ingredient to this recipe of plunder to help the members of Grandma's
recipe to drive their personal stakes deeper into this world, the
mind, and future. The enemy tried though social pesticides to remove
all threats to it sovereignty, and would have been successful if it
wasn't for some outside intervention. How else would our current
civilization explain the existence of the suicide squad? Papers used
as last resort by the enemy to conceal the truth were written
claiming," just a bunch of lucky uncompetitive rejects rampaging,"
and, yet, by my own secret research, there was more than chance to the
existence of the suicide squad. Chance could not explain away the very
few who where questioning the purpose of man and of the world. The
purpose of life is not usually questioned by people who are vested in
both property and future flesh. Their only purpose for living is to
only perpetuate their own flesh further, and so consumed are they with
this purpose, that they now control large portions of the mind and
thought to the extent that many without any possible chance for a
stake to this world believe their lives some how matter. Believe me,
for I have read the ancient books, any ancient people that didn't fuck
and perpetuate flesh are no longer remembered. Those ancient people
were soldiers sent unequipped to fight and die so as to make more room
for the enemy and its flesh. Today, with most of the territory of the
mind controlled by the enemy, excess people are no longer sent to
fight meaningless wars, they are sent to rot in prisons or tricked
into slaving away at some meaningless occupations. The enemy and its
flesh were close to forever dominating the mind and purpose of life,'
but something they were not planning on happened, an outside
intervention and some coincidences materialized under the hue of the
Red Planet. That the only purpose of life is to only perpetuate flesh
further, and the idea that anyone not interested or unable to
perpetuate flesh further be damned if their not going to help drive
the flesh-stake deeper into this world, maybe needed to be
reconsidered since the enemy's control of the mind was on the brink of
being preemptively assaulted by the suicide squad.
Imaginary snow silently falls on top of the four men and one woman
whose heads, their windowless private rooms, are filled with thoughts
and prayers.
################################################################&
LEGEND
( Text ) Iamghost's editorial note
< Text > Some editorial note the buried alive woman would of wrote if
she was still breathing
[ Text ] Unidentified
#################################################################&
ROOM ONE
"I sold drugs to the wrong people."
"You were put away for selling drugs to the wrong people?"
"Yeah," the thirty-two year old black man said. "See if I was selling
drugs to the right people, people in the suburbs, than I would never
have been locked up for the best part of my life."
The caseworker wrote into a manila folder. She thought of the other
thirty-something men that were beginning to leave prison, men locked
away for the best part of their lives for non-violent crimes where the
only ones who seem to profit is rich bored people in the burbs and the
crime families.
( The use of drugs as a pesticide to remove excess people from
clumsily interfering with the enemy's master plan of not allowing the
unoccupied mind to escape control of it's purpose, help drive the
flesh-stake in deeper, was not fully acknowledge until a bunch of loco
mother fuckers escape prison one California spring day and went on a
bloody fucking rampage. The way the escapees saw it, for the most of
mundane reasons, freedom,' and not for Fourteen's freeing the mind
from the enemy's purpose, was that they were already dead and that
they might as well try to bring some attention to the fact that the
only people that ever getting locked up are the people who sell drugs
to the wrong people, so they slaughtered a couple of hundred people
that were spending their day at some Shish concert. If the best part
of their lives were so easily sacrificed for the few that enjoy
illegal drugs, than I doubt if a few hundred people slaughtered would
ever be noticed either )
The woman looked at the single black man with no kids. "Anyway, are
you going to work at the plastic injection company? It's the only
position we have available."
[ It would be interesting to know if the poor chap has ever been
spooned ]
The slumped over man inappropriately replied, "I want an education. I
want a brand new start. I want a family."
[ Tissues someone, he's going to cry ]
The woman aware of the mistake of responding to the man's emotions
looked at the Sony clock sitting on her Office Max desk. . "We need to
get you back on your feet. After then, you can go to school
part-time," she mechanically responded.
The man remembered walking around a vast shopping mall just after he
was released. The poor guy after looking at a poster of smiling teen
models in two piece bathing suits holding a slogan, Say No to Drugs,
became almost aware for the first time of the mental and social prison
that would follow him no matter where he would roamed but the enemy's
control of thought dominated that day. "Ok," the man said as he stood
up. "I need to make chump change to stay out of prison, right."
( Poor guy's labor and mind being used by the enemy for driving
personal stakes deeper and deeper into this earth, but the poor guy
didn't know that, and would have never know that until that day that
the enemy's control of the mind would be smashed to bits )
[ Bling bing, sucker ]
################################################################&
ROOM TWO
"Isn't that a bunch of crap, lock up all the mind criminals that
aren't interested in furthering flesh."
( Be careful of what you write, of what you paint, of what you create,
for the enemy's flesh will seek to destroy or ignore it as they have
always done before, book burnings, messages lost in obscurity, etc...)
"You should have been more careful. I told you not to release your
little mutating instructions."
"Fuck'em, they don't give us the resources to built the appropriate
mainframe and OS to try my ideas out; what the fuck did they expect,"
the slender man argued.
"You little instructions were meaningless you know, with the weak
collection of computers and OS. And besides all that you have
accomplished by releasing your little spell was some people losing a
little bit of data, a Mpg or Pic file, or having to reboot a couple of
times; the only thing you have done is bite the bait and land yourself
in jail," his tired friend argued back.
(Few are aware of the pesticide used by the enemy to lock up hazards
to their hold on the mind. Silly little baits the enemy still uses to
catch curious hackers and crackers when one thinks of it after
drinking a pint of aged Jack Daniel's. Two bit fronts used to lure
intelligent minds into prison terms, or as the case is often enough to
stamp out the drive for curiosity and freeing the mind from the plan
of the enemy, are comical when you think about it. Science and
research are only beneficial when it is to promote furthering flesh
but not beneficial when the mind dreams of fleshless endeavors
whenever it is accidentally released from the grasp of the enemy.)
"Yeah, silly of me to think that no one was ever watching." The thirty
five year old guy took of his glasses. He thought about perch fishing,
trapping, and a woman's brown eyes. "Fuck! I feel so old now. "
"Your still young. What are you going to do when you get out next
month?"
[ Tech support, sucker ]
################################################################&
ROOM THREE
The person in bed looking at the curtained window could not tell, or
really cared to tell, if it was early morning or late evening when his
friend knocked on the apartment's green door.
Moments before, he was thinking how funny it was that after falling
asleep after four nights of sleep deprivation, he could no longer
remember the memory he wanted to forever preserve and never risk
altering by losing consciousness.
< Maybe if he knew the whole story he would never have wanted to
preserve the memory that has slipped away during a night's slumber...>
He knew deep down inside the memory was forever altered now, and no
matter how hard he tried to reconstruct the memory it would never be
the same memory he held close for four days of sleep deprivation.
(All personal memories are useless without props and a supporting
cast. Too often enough, a recalled memory reveals more about the
imagination, current props, and supporting cast than about the
objective facts. A young beautiful woman talking on a payphone, a
last conversation, a warm kiss goodbye, a Southwest plane departing,
are insignificant to the larger story too often ignored, you just
wait, all your relationships will end too.')
The person laying in bed almost wanted to open his eyes to fill his
empty mind with some object that then would then start a chain
reaction of associations that would bring him to his lost memory but
held back because of knowing deep down inside that the memory was
forever altered now, and, besides, the urge to open his eyes was not
that strong since he knew that all the ends of all mental chain
reactions are meaningless, all of your imagined relationships will
come to an end,' and, so, with very good reason, his eyes remain
closed. Raising himself up to turn his body to the left side, he
grabbed his side in pain. On the third night, and after the effects of
various self-tortures, cutaneous 0.5 cm deep lacerations, five minute
submersions in tubs of ice, pyrotechnics, and controlled asphyxiation,
were losing effect, the guy ran down a rocky trail and took an awful
tumble; he spent the rest of the night walking around to aggravate the
broken rib. He heard someone knocking, and like the occasionally
ringing phone, he ignored the source, for it could never be her. She
has left four days ago and now has a new life of her own.
< Death is no nearer than when one sleeps searching for the original
memory >
The friend started to leave after no one answered the knocks and
wondered whether he should inappropriately turn the doorknob. He went
back and tried the door. The door opened, and a rush of cold air
escaped free.
"Hey, man! I was worried about you; I haven't seen you in about a
week."
No one replies, and the door is shut.
"I don't care anymore," the thin groggy person announced.
"How long have you been in bed today?
"What time is it?"
"Eight thirty in the evening," the concerned friend replied.
"About sixteen hours."
"Good God, sixteen hours! You still on that tea and toast diet?"
"Yes."
The friend looked around the dim studio apartment. A thousand or two
books on the floor were organized into neat piles, and there didn't
seem to be any dirty dishes in the sink. The air conditioner was
turned on to the lowest setting, and all the other electrical
appliances, except a Mickey Mouse black phone, were unplugged. Some
ripped pages to a book were on the brown carpet, beside the mattress
sitting on concrete blocks.
"Why haven't you answered the phone? I have been trying to call you
ever since you were fired."
"No reason to answer the phone, anymore really. Life has past me by,
and another yellow bus is not scheduled to ever stop this way ever
again."
[ This pesticide the fellow is experiencing is the most insidious of
all pesticides. Poor fellow is feeling depressed for a woman just
dumped him and, also, feeling a little guilty for believing the
enemy's statement that consuming the majority of the world's resources
should be going to the flesh that possesses a real stake to this
world. Tea, toast, and air conditioner to make the room as cold as
possible so to as occasionally wake the fellow from the pangs of deep
sleep, are all the enemy gives the unproductive person that can no
longer provide labor for the flesh with real stakes. For one reason or
another, one normal guy was dumped, missed the ship, fell behind,
whatever blah, and no brown eyed woman with future flesh on their mind
ever waits or goes back for any mistake or accident that happens to
fall a little behind.]
"That's nonsense! Here let me open the curtains a bit."
The friend heads toward the window. While opening the curtains the
friend smiles after imagining his bed-ridden friend day dreaming his
life away.
( Dreams are what the enemy gives people without any hope for a
stake...)
"Please leave!"
"I'm worried about you," his friend pleaded.
"Don't worry am just taking some time off between jobs."
"You sure?"
"Yeah! I'll be back on my feet in no time."
The friend shrugged. "Ok, see you later. Bye."
"Bye, and one last favor, please lock the door behind you."
The man opened his eyes to watch his friend close the door behind him,
and, after a moment of moving down a line of associations, an Indian
casino, a water fountain, a Colorado mountain, a blanket under a tree,
he realized she would never be their to wake him up anymore, but he
liked to still pretend so he closed his eyes again and fell to sleep.
( Imaginings of someone awaken some slumbering dear are quickly
disappearing under the red hue )
###############################################################&
ROOM FOUR AND ROOM FIVE
< Under Colorado's stars, she walks away and says I don't love you >
Steadily as the ancient two story brick building set apart some
distance from the closed national chain stores K Mart, Shoneys, and
Southern Maid Donuts, became emptied of drunken chatter and laughter,
and the night's last calls were hurriedly swallowed, and the
florescent lights inside were finally turned on, chasing out the last
couple, a baldhead black man smoking a cigarette and a woman shielding
her painted face, her hands unable to completely shade her daylight
features from the video camera above the exit/entrance, the snow
unemotionally fell over the tired city, and the interstate traffic
mechanically declined to a weary car or two, some lonely
eighteen-wheelers listening to Art Bell's talk about strange weather
patterns and ghostly ghouls haunting old family homes , and a yellow
snowplow, its shooting stars spraying in all weird directions.
"Hey, buddy! We're closed. You want me to call a cab to give you a
ride back to the motel?" Receiving no reply, the fat bartender
tenderly shook the slumped outsider. "Hey, we're closed. You want me
to call you a cab?"
"What time is it?"
"Five past two."
"I want you to call me a cab to take me to one of those neighborhood
bars that stays open till four," the outsider cried.
The front and back doors were opened, and cold air made its way
through the large room.
"After this hour, they're members only. You'll waste your time. And
anyway, by the time you get there, everyone will be gone."
The phone rang, and the bartender prior to answering the phone told
the man to quickly sober up and leave or else the police would be
called.
"Hello."
"Yeah, Baby!"
"I'll be out of here in thirty minutes."
"I'll drive carefully. I love you too."
The black phone was set back into its cradle, and a waitress, her
black eyes focusing on the slumped man, closed and locked the back
door. She walked over to the slumped man and said, "Honey, you want us
to call you a cab?"
The man stirred and looked up, his eyes unable to focus.
"What time is it?
She turned her head towards the clock above the copper plated bar.
"It's fifteen past two."
The man's head began to nod again, and the young woman held her
breath. Then unexpectedly the outsider protested, "The bug will be
released," to the invisible old 77' foes.
[Tricky probability is Ha, Ha, but hate is Wa, Wayou bitch, who cares
if your long black hair is cut short. Some twenty-gallon aquariums, a
jar full of bugs, some chemical pesticides, a worn out copy of a
monk's life work, and a little bit of outside intervention, and
wallah, someone less is coming to dinner tonight.]
"You think I'm a fucking bug to be squashed at your convenience!"
The worried waitress looked at the bartender that was rapidly
approaching.
"Hey buddy, " the fat bartender stated in alarm.
The outsider becoming aware of his momentary lapse of consciousness
stood up and headed toward the restroom. "Lets me just use the
restroom, ok. I'll walk back to the motel room."
The bar's door was closed and then locked after the man that was
buttoning his black jacket passed unhindered into the night's crisp
cold air. He clumsily walked towards a billboard sign, "IM TURNING TO
GOD." He began to recall the neighborhood church were he meet the
woman that he once loved. Though those neighborhood churches never
really welcome single people without future flesh, the man awoke up
one Sunday morning and decided to curiously attend. Everyone one in
attendance belonged to the membership of furthering flesh, even the
Reverend, a remarried divorcee with three kids. While the Reverend
talked about God's grace, how God will always forgive sins, and trying
to ignore some of the stares from the very young people, the man was
thinking about the hot night he spent listening to a former Truck
Driver preaching God's wrath on a pirated AM radio station somewhere
back in Southern Arizona. He could still hear the old timers closing
raspy words, "you don't really think you'll be forgiven, for if
everyone is forgiven in the end than there is no point to do good in
this life." A bible that old timer was holding was thumped a last
time, and the station broadcast ended. After the neighbor church's
service, the congregation went outside to enjoy a picnic to celebrate
the marriage of their newest members. No one invited the single man to
the celebration, but that didn't stop him from attending and trying to
get some scraps. The church hired a catering service for the picnic.
He was standing last in line, behind a smiling elderly couple holding
a place in line for the rest of their flesh when he saw the only woman
he would ever love. Pyromania was playing on the radio when the
banquet server finally gave him her number 1--###--##66397, and, as
the other banquet workers were finished cleaning the trash left by the
congregation, she kissed him goodbye.
[And fucked him dry later that night]
The man pauses and looks at a couple of cars slowing capturing the
cleared space behind a big yellow snowplow. The Motel 6 was still on
the other side of the interstate. Feeling the urge to urinate he
headed towards a convenience store. In the corner of the mirror less
restroom, a big black spider reigned on a cobweb, and the only toilet
was stopped up with feces. He stared at some writing on the bathroom
wall, "preemptive strike now." He finished urinating and did not
bother to flush the toilet, enough of it was already on the ground.
"Skoal cherry."
"Yeah, the red can."
The clerk hands him his change, a crumbled dollar and some loose
nickels and pennies. "Have a nice day and come again."
The man crossed the viaduct. He climbed the motel's stairs and entered
his room. The bed was made, and clean white bath towels were on the
cabinet. He sat on the bed, picked up the phone, and dialed
1--###--##66397. He heard, "this number is no longer in service " He
slammed the phone down and, then, reached into his pocket; he pulled
out a two-page letter. He inspected the letter again, hoping to find
an encrypted message, an encrypted phone number. Sentences and words
were totaled, subtracted, rotated, and inverted. He finally, out of
desperation, converted the letter's last sentence into a phone number.
[ 9 3 6 4 5 7 6 3 ]
He dials the various combinations attached to a one eight hundred
prefix.
"Hello, you have reached the law office of please leave a message
after the beep beep."
The earth spins and revolves, and someone old somewhere dies as
someone somewhere is born. The man hangs up the phone without leaving
a message. He passes out soon after staring at his ragged fingernails
embedded with dirt. .
[Figure it out, using your numbers or mnemonic symbols! She doesn't
want to be with you. Go call a one nine hundred number you'll feel
better loser.]
###############################################################&
The hooded figure stops handling the knotted strings and pulls out a
pipe. We all watch him smoke. A shooting star quickly burns itself
out, and another person, her thin body barely visible against the
black sky, leaves the group. A voice some distant from the glowing
embers is heard, "Don't leave me!" She doesn't look back and soon
disappears from view. A metallic screech is heard coming from the
dark's peripheral forest, and then a woman's scream. Someone in the
group laughs, and the cloaked figure taps his pipe against a rock. He
puts the pipe away and says, "Behest, summer's over, baby; wish you
were here with me under the hue of the dawning Red Planet, but, no,
instead you desired to be underneath a meter of dirt; if your ever
happen to dig yourself out stay out of my way, bitch."
***I haven't thought of the ending yet. Damn I hate having to think of
an ending***
------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Amen!"
Describe a Los Angeles summer coming back from Venice
the 10 am bus to the board room, downtown LA.
As he heads toward downtown the suicide squad heads into the deep of
Venice, Hollywood.
(Beware)
Cheers : )
Frank Greene Fowlkes
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------