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From: frank_fowlkes@yahoo.com
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Subject: Re: I AM GHOST
Date: Sat, 20 Dec 2003 22:38:15 -0800
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===================
I AM GHOST
By
Frank Greene Fowlkes
Listen, as I was starting to write my children's story, Bugaboo---a
silly tale about the destruction of crime families, their wonderful
world, their truth, their bleeming hordes, and the unwanted meany
beasties, I was interrupted by a woman and some little children
whispering strange words and cheer into my ear, and, as it usually
happens to my mind when it's not currently attached to the world in
any meaningful way, and, therefore, attracted sometimes more to the
strange than to the usual, my mind easily decided to stop writing and
follow these strange interruptions, for my mind has to clutch
something challenging during the summer's many late empty hours,
another woman's greedy lips wrapped around my dick or writing to
another 'intelligent' reader sometimes not enough; and, so, as you
will find out later, if you are still around, alive, and care,
nobody's going to fault you, calenture, rolling green hills or not, I
followed and became a better person, and you did not.
Remember?
My dear reader, don't you start. Think for for a while.
Done, thinking?
Silly reader, must I always remind you, or always put ideas into your
feeble head: you were there with me when they came.
You don't remember.
Of course you don't, you pretended to be sleeping. I gave you several
kisses, and you still didn't want to stir. I thought maybe you didn't
want to come. For awhile I wanted to pretend too, pretend to be
asleep, hoping to wake up to a better day, but, instead I left, gently
closing the door behind myself, and waiting, some time, my head
against the door, for you to come, but you never came so I left for
good.
Ok; so, what do I want, you ask.
What do I want. Calm yourself reader, we didn't invite you to read, or
listen. You can leave anytime you want; we won't follow, chase, or
interfere. You can think all by yourself. We are not here for you, you
remember that and you'll be fine. After all this time, strange, you
came and bumped into me, not the other way around. Excuse yourself,
tuck that thought of yours between your legs, and go live your life
and die a happy death; you're not needed nor wanted here.
A mess of children's laughter is heard but the reader doesn't hear.
Okiedoke, good idea, you go do that, bye. And next time, reader,
don't intrude unless your invited.
Some, another anonymous, reader walks to the door; opens it.; doesn't
look back; poses, shoulders square, head tilted high towards the
horizion, barks something; and, closes the door. Not a second later, a
little girl rushes up and locks the door; she then throws the key
away. The reader walks away hearing strange children's laughter.
"Are they gone for good," one of the little children asks.
"Yes," the man replies.
"Whatever happens to those people," another child asks.
"They die kinda."
"Kinda?"
"Well, most of them leave little babies behind. Those babies are
really themselves minus memories though nobody likes to say so.
Everything those people do in life, in this world, is to make sure
they get the best possible chance to live forever, even at the expense
of others less fortunate. So you see other people being sacrified all
the time; some of them even think they deserve it, maybe they don't
deserve to live as long as other people."
"That's mean," a little brown eyed girl shouts.
"They don't see it that way. Their life is always more important.
They'll kill, or get others to kill, before they harm any part of
themselves or their future. And killing, murdering other people, is
ok, if not righteous, as long as it keeps them all in the best
position to stay alive longer."
"They must be happy to be alive," the little girl replies sadly.
The man looks at the little girl, her hand brushing away wild hair
away from her little face. He still cannot make out her face.
"Tell us about that arguement you had years ago," a couple of children
say, interuptingly.
"Just nonsense really, not important now."
He again tries to make out the little girl's face but can't. The
little girl then jumps up and joins in with the other children, "come
on, tell us the story."
Ok, I'll tell you what I remember, though be warned, it's kinda
weird."
The little children cheer.
######
My dear reader, settle down. We knew each other, very, very, well, so
well, that sometimes, when I used to think about running away from
their interruptions, I pretended to make love with you when I was with
another, just like in the old days, windows open, ocean breezes, and
red nails clawing my back, but, after, you would always leave like you
didn't know me instead of replying that your love for me was still
strong too. I always loved you. But like I found out later, your love
has more to do with a time and place than with a person.
This woman here, above passage, I ended up killing in the end,
self-defense. Yes, I guess, she loved me, that is, as long as I kept
myself in the right position, but positions change all by themselves
sometimes, so she left and followed on her own and I was left behind.
But funny, how life turns around and suddenly someone left behind is
suddeningly in the way. She and her new buddy said I was an
obstruction now. I told them both I haven't moved all this time. They
didn't care so they cornered and attacked me, but my new friends came
and killed them both from behind. She looked at me like I was going to
come over and save them. I did come over but instead planted my boot
over her face.
You don't remember do you, reader.
A little girl seperates from the tangled, thorned, mess and walks up
to the woman who is sitting on a couch holding a sleeping three year
old girl.
"Who is that, daddy?"
"That's your little sister."
Entertain me, the reader says.
Dear reader, I hesitate to tell you, not because you are any lower in
intelligence or morals, which you aren't, anybody can tell that, but
because you two might be harmed, and I surely don't want that to
happen to you, of all people.
Above sentence, isn't about that dead woman, its about seven people
years ago, so, it's only fair that you children know, those people
never have known me and I have never wanted to know them.
I almost followed the cheering little children, that is, until my
passion and better senses caught up me, and I followed her instead.
She told me about how those little children get in the way of the
living, love, and choices, and nobody likes that. So, to make a long
story short, I followed her to the secret place, and here I am,
telling you to do the same because she'll hurt you if you don't.
Well, she'll tell you stuff when the little cheering children tire
from getting you to follow, and then when they fall asleep around you,
stuff like you should've waited, you should've followed, she finally
had to give up on you and find another who happened to be more
deserving. And you might as well be dead if that happens, after
listening to her first interruptions and all, telling you her love is
only for you. I'm glad I sneaked away while the tired children slept
and followed her to the secret place. She gave me a reason to live, to
love, to care again. And she'll give the same to you, trust me.
Puny artifacts above and below of an imaginary bitch and reader that
never existed but in my head.
Mind, dear reader, before I start to tell you about my journey to her
secret place, because yours might be different if you chose to follow,
which, if you have any passion, then you will, you should know
sometimes my strength fails me; sometimes my passions get carried
away, and sometimes I forget myself, so please excuse me if it seems I
don't hold your present and future interests or choices for the moment
because really I do; it's just those cheering little children still
sometimes bother me sometimes, not allowing me to remember her touch,
her loving warm kisses, or our great fucks, but she pays me a visit
now and then, chases those cheering children away, and reminds me of
the secret place, and how my life has gotten better. I'm here to help
you, and want you to be as alive as I am. So if the tale gets a little
strange bear with me---its those children, I'll get you there safe and
sound, just like she got me to the secret place, with kisses and love.
You understand, dear reader, good, not many would, not many would try!
No, baby, I tried to bend the arguement but it may have bended me
instead.
To tell you honestly, my mind is sound most of the time.
Yes, really, I'm a bore.
But, today, for some strange reason, my mind grasped and reached more
than usual, and, I'm a little worried too, maybe I reached too far
this time. But, I hope you don't blame me stranger, for I feel it has
to do with her interrupting me from writing my little story and
whispering into my ear all ghosts matter.
All ghosts matter.
For the first time in my life, she made me wish I was closer to the
living than the dead. Many wouldn't have grasped the dead, I agree,
but many aren't like me either. And, besides, summing up my unattached
life, calculating the risk with the few ignorant people around me, and
remembering the living still too far to reach anyway, I guessed maybe
it couldn't hurt, for there might be more involved than just a
person's temporal mind and choices.
No matter how much you like to think you're involved, you're not. Be
good, just do good.
You yawn! I don't like telling this to the living but the dead little
children cheered me to grasp also. Yes, the dead, unwanted little
children! Hell, stranger, you may think it nothing to fret over but if
you were to hear those words coming from this bitch plus all of the
dead little children cheering, I assure you your mind would grasp and
chase too even if it put your present and future at black risk. All
ghosts matter. For you see if all ghosts don't matter why are they
able to influence and change the living?
Sit down and calm yourself!
Fuck, stranger, I tried to pretend I didn't hear; I tried to dismiss
her; I tried to forget; shit, I even tried calling out for help. But
as you will learn, I'm afraid, if you haven't already, with all the
dead little children cheering, not all the dead are for the living.
You say that, "all ghosts matter," is to be used as a fulcrum to move
me away from the living! You don't think I know that. Why do you think
I've been shivering and whimpering about all this time?
Not because I am a wimp!
Stranger, as you no doubt know by reading my first shaky draft, the
trauma of having that inescapable idea imprint upon my mind is
overwhelming but to say that it will eventually remove me from the
living is absurd, for everyone knows some of the dead don't matter.
Here is where the story gets confusing because of the passage of time,
children.
Than why do I smile!
Stranger, we all know it will be a cold, very cold, gloomy day when
all that is alive ceases to matter, for all
of the living share fresh
memories, fresh ideas, fresh hopes, fresh dreams, fresh love, and the
dead share nothing. Well not exactly, I guess, most of the dead share
a lot with the living, to be remembered or something, and I can agree
with that, for most of the dead made sure they would be remembered,
tombstones and visiting ancestors with flowers and all.
So, it's that simple, you say, the living keep the dead alive, so you
understand why all ghosts matter.
So what's the fuss!
But some of the dead don't matter; aren't remembered, not while alive,
if they were ever born, much less dead, well at least not more than
others, some of the dead, unwanted children are remembered for awhile,
getting in the way but always defeated in the end.
Lessons for life and the living!
I agree with you, some of the dead don't fucking matter.
But what!
You have never heard the cheering dead little children have you?
Sometimes, night's ago, drunken, and after a good fuck, when another
would fall asleep, and all was quiet and dark around me, I would hear
them. They were in the way, or maybe not good enough. But they still
cheer just the same though nobody listened, and I would always forget
them, I would fall asleep and awake with another cunt's mouth around
my cock, that is until she came.
My first draft conveys otherwise!
Those were strange days when under the hue of an emgerging red planet.
Stranger, believe me, I tried not to write that first draft but after
those two chilly words penetrated and I thought about those ancient
words she told me years back, "you will not forgot all I have done for
you. You are ghost. Cometh here," I had to do something other than
pretending someone with psychic ability will come to my rescue. I
wrote, and I'm not sorry.
They would of!
Bullshit, I once thought the living cared about me and would come to
my rescue someday, but not anymore, they have better things to do than
save some indigent. And, so, the first draft was written, and the dead
queen momentarily left, but I know she will be back.
Yes, she will!
Words on paper will not stop her. This bitch will never stop; this
fucking bitch mattered while she was alive and matters even more now
dead. And if you forgot this bitch beckons. I just know she has plans
for me.
So why don't you let it happen!
Have you been listening to me? She said, "ghosts matter." And if that
isn't enough, she has plans, bloody fucking plans. What make you think
her plans are nice? You don't know this bitch well do you? I'm afraid,
stranger. I'm afraid of what she will tell me, of what she will tell
me to do. And you'd be afraid too if you knew some of the dastardly
secrets she whispered into my ears years ago; secrets so devastating,
if released they would threaten the provisionally living.
Yes the provisionally living!
I yet not know how to phantom some of those secrets, and hope never to
grapple with the one she plans on telling me eventually. But, until
that day, as all of the cheery life around me slowly moves way, I will
try not to feel that I am doom to manifest all of her secrets into the
world to come.
To come!
Stranger, listen, and listen good, if you haven't just shit your pants
by now then you're a dumb ass plain and simple, but there still might
some help for you to understand.
Ok, pause, take a deep breath, fasten your seatbelt, and rewind, its
going to get bumpier.
Some months back I was writing on a scrap of paper, I AM GHOST, and,
for the following few weeks, I couldn't get those words out of my
head. Maybe it has something to do with, its better to be a discrete
ghost than an indigent that no one cares about, at least not here and
now anyway, or maybe it had to do with my flatus, the vapor entering
unsuspecting innocent nostrils, or, maybe, just maybe, it was nothing
at all; I bet you would just love that, uh, it was nothing at all, and
believe me I would love it too if it wasn't for this woman, her
interruptions, and her "plans." Something else, don't tell nobody but
at night, she crawls in bed with me, gets on top of me, and places her
cold hands around my neck; she whispers between clenched teeth, "you
are ghost!"
Stop laughing kids, my mind here was still a little with the living,
make-believe and all.
Yeah, sometimes we do that!
Man, you should feel her cold body envelope. After a while it makes
you feel good and numb all over.
You'll pass!
Hmm, where was I? Oh yeah Other than caressing my neck, sometimes
trying to strangle me, fucking, and telling me, "I am ghost," she
tells me strange things, awful things you see, but you already sensed
that right. But something you don't sense, after awhile of listening
and united those past fragmented memories separated by some of the few
living people around me those awful things aren't too awful at all.
Chucks, they can be out right cheery sometimes.
What!
Don't blame me for once comforting myself with her stories, I once
thought wouldn't it be great to have her voice drowned out by the
chit-chat of the caring, but that won't and hasn't happened, not
anytime soon anyway.
You sigh, how sweet!
Stranger, beware of what you know to be real or ghost. The living
thinks me dead and don't talk to me anymore. Can you say why that is
not just as real as your stupid stinking breath? Oh, you can't just
now! Stranger I assure you of one thing its nothing to do with me
being a fucking dork.
Yeah, dork.
Dead queen told me one night "They think you don't matter anymore; you
have nothing at stake; you need not interfere; you are not a part of
the world" she told me as her nails lovingly scratched my neck,
"because if they did you would not cling to me when they come and try
to provoke you or ignore you all together."
Some of the worthless living are left to the dead, maybe, because the
dead are not important and have nothing to say.
Relax we're here.
Where!
Kids, maybe it started here, maybe not.
Well, somewhere near the beginning, silly. Now, sit down and have a
cup of hot chocolate.
Hmmm, you don't want marshmallows!
Why my dear? Hot chocolate is always best with big white puffy
marshmallows. Fine, no marshmallows for you. But why don't you put on
the sweater the two girls made for you? It's colder in here than you
think. You might catch a cold. I'm doubly sure someone somewhere loves
you enough to care that you don't catch a cold. Very well, I'm sure
somewhere in your cute little head you know that you won't be staying
here long. You got a home with someone loving waiting for you. Gee,
you don't like the encroaching silence or the way the dead girls are
looking at you! Stranger, I would hate for you to meet their dead
mother. She doesn't like people like you. She doesn't like people who
pretend.
Your a little scared!
What the fuck do you think I am, cheery? Fuck, I'll be right back.
Girls, why don't you show the stranger your new little play.
[The two wildly dancing girls see something crawling in the distance
and smile. It is painfully moving near, and, all of a sudden, with a
hidden burst of energy, it springs forward and yells, "I AM GHOST, and
neither of your knives, walls, or white panties are going to stop that
truth from rising and penetrating. Dead queen, our girls, and I still
fucking matter."]
One dying old, and my baby killed before she could be be born.
Sorry about scary you.
Enough of this crap!
Very well, don't worry about the broken cup; I'm sure one of the girls
will clean up the mess.
Wait!
Now that's totally silly, you don't have to apologize. What make you
think you have to apologize to my dead girl? Haven't you been
listening to me, dead queen told me ghosts matter. And if you think
they don't, then just you wait. Hell, they might even matter more than
some of the living. Now, we have to leave. I can't stay here to long.
Why!
I start to remember how good suffocating feels. How it make every
single thing in your body cry. Its weird but I feel more alive when
dead queen chokes me at night than when I'm around any of the living.
Now we have to leave before I choke you, silly.
Now, jump! I promise the parachute works, and no you can't see my
hands.
Where was I before we went on our little trip? Hmm, I fear the dead
matter because their ghosts are able to affect the living, and,
therefore, physically change the physical fucking world. I fear,
though the living don't make me feel that I matter, I fear my dead
queen does, yes she does. She just might love me more than any of the
living. But, stranger, for your sake, what I truly fear most is my
little girl's plans. She is just a meany; theirs no changing that I'm
afraid. Yup, that's it for now.
You feel you been trick!
Now what are we going to do about you and your feelings, silly.
Be careful, you need some help!
Now why would you say such a thing? Dear, I know it's sincere. But
don't worry or fuss over me, the dead feel I matter; shit, dead queen
and my little girl know I matter.
They watch over me : ), and, no matter how I distress at their past
and future interruptions I will always love them. All I ask of you,
stranger, "Noli me tangere." I will love and chase them;
I love them.
you just sit their with your love ones and relax. Stranger, I promise
to tell you how the story turns out over a cup of hot chocolate
someday.
###
"Chocolate for everyone," the man shouts.
All the children head towards the kitchen except the man and little
girl.
Colored lights are flashing on the Christmas tree. A woman and her
little daughter are asleep on the couch. And outside the window, the
whole world and their armies stand ready outside to protect and defend
precious life against all emerging threats.
A man holding the hand of a little girl stands by the door, together.
"Daddy, why am I not alive?"
"Maybe, it's my fault."
"How?"
"Not good enough, not good enough when compared to others." He looks
at his daughter and begins to cry. "Life goes to those who are strong,
to those who deserve to live more.
The little girl stares at her mother holding her baby sister. "You
believe that, daddy?"
The room is quiet. The man doesn't anwser.
"They'll wake up soon, daddy; we better leave, don't want to ruin
their Christmas and Happy New Year."
They both stare at star on top of the Chistmas tree. "Daddy."
"Yes." "Do you love me?"
"I love you."
"Why should their life matter when mine does not."
He looks down at the little girl and touches her cheek. "Life won't.
They'll wake up to enjoy another snowy Christmas, another drunken
Happy New Year but one quiet night they'll go to sleep and wake up to
fathom all young and old dead around."
"Will we be there to see it?"
"Yes. You'll even be a part of it."
"I'm a part of this world too, daddy."
She unlocks the door.
He picks up his daughter and kisses her.
"Merry Christmas, daddy."
"Merry Christmas."