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From: frank_fowlkes@yahoo.com
Newsgroups: alt.stories.urban-harvest
Subject: Re: green, yellow, orange, purple, red, blue, and black
Date: Sat, 31 Jul 2004 02:42:56 -0700
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green, yellow, orange, purple, red, blue, and black
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The snow was falling around him, and some black trees creaked slowly
in the wind. He lifted his hands away from the snow. The black
mountain and the day after the seventy seventh hour started to creep
closer to his thoughts now but, always and soon after, he felt another
black lapse coming that would push the mountain, the day, further
away. He started counting where he left off. The black lapses he could
never stop; they stopped thought, stopped ideas. They were coming more
and more frequent now.
# # #
* # # # #
when you start to feel tired rub #
imaginary ice over your arms, face, # *
neck, chest
*
"This one is stronger than the last," he thought, at the same time
counting down from seven hundred. He tried every other method to pass
through the black lapses without losing consciousness, imaginary
walks, imaginary cold baths, imaginary fights, imaginary love affairs,
none of them help, only counting or repeating a sentence over and over
again sometimes helped but never entirely; he would always end up
drowning. Imaginary fights and fucks, imaginary people and worlds,
helped him get through the early grey lapses. The grey lapses only
lasted the first night; they only suggested sleep, suggested that he
close his eyes and rest awhile, last thoughts always a fuck, or maybe
a fight to keep a fuck or get a fuck, get another fuck. Imagining
before sleep usually helped him plan the next day, if he ever woke up
again, to get stuff right: right place, right time, right change to be
right person, and other times they changed stuff from how they
actually happened, or how someone would have like for them to happen,
meeting someone, going somewhere, being able to start over, a new
promise. The second night, when gradually the grey lapses turned
black, and the black lapses didn't suggest sleep, they stop all
thoughts from continuing, from forming, he resorted to counting.
Imaginary fights and fucks were useless for him to use to help him get
pasted the black lapses; they only took one so far, if one's
imaginations turned right, love then a fuck, also a pass to do
anything to anyone in this world, and if one's imaginations didn't
amount to anything, no reason to go any further. Staring up at the
stars, the end half of the second night, he began counting the waves
crashing on the beach, one, two, three, four-hundred and thirty-one,
on and on, and with the grey lapses turning blacker and blacker, no
longer able to repel them, he began to wonder if they would finally
put him to a sleep that he would never wake up from. Yet, the lapses
weren't sleep; people choose to sleep, like they chose to fuck, kill,
and fuck, and kill; they were different; worse; they were like an
undertow, and after breaking the surface to breathe again, one not
sure about the last count, never sure about the extent of the lapse,
another black lapse would come, and another, and another, halting the
day after the seventy seventh hour, halting the path. The black lapse
were like death, one dead sure, never to be here again. He lifted his
fingers off his wrist, not fast enough, the lapse was starting to
peak.
* *
bend your left arm, tap right
phalanges against your elbow *
*
He started to rub sand up and down his arms and up to his neck. He
began counting his tapping finger, one, two, three, faster and faster,
ten, eleven. "Don't stand up," he remembered though every muscle in
his body wanted him to. The black lapse never appeared when someone
was doing repetitive motor exercises, one needed to be in the dark and
supine. At the same time, the black lapses weren't to be avoided. In a
way, the lapses would be needed to find the path to the black
mountain, to the day after the seventy seventh hour, to the last
thought. No one could get to the black mountain by not passing through
the black lapses, if anyone could get through one, through death. He
would always drown, waking up the next morning to a sound, to a
strange sense that he almost pierced through but never knowing for
sure; this was his thirty-fourth attempt trying. After some of the
black lapses, he would remembered the number with other strange
figures, and that he was only counting, somehow manipulating the
number, other figures, that he only counted to stay awake, stay awake
for the day after. The lapse ebbed, and his mind began to slowly
clear.
*
hold your breath, count the seventy seven
knots on the string, round and round. *
*
He sat up. The sky was still black but he could see a faint glow
somewhere on the horizon. "Never here again," he repeated several
times before resting back to the earth. Only at night, only supine and
alone, could the path through the black mountain, the day after the
seventy seventh hour, creep any nearer. He wanted another black lapse
to come before the sun climbed into the sky. "The black lapses have to
be crossed; counting, prayers, anything; at least they're getting
easier now."
## #
anything! just don't choose to #
fall asleep before the seventy *
seventh hour # #
## #
And one came, lasted only a couple of seconds, and he was wrong, or
just a little off, the black lapses were getting stronger, the 23rd
attempts, the early lapses, toys, and these not only threaten to drown
him to sleep, these physically threatened to snap him out of
existence. He stopped tapping and paused, the stars started to
violently shake, the ground erupted, and began to repeat sentences
over and over again, this lapse unlike anyone of them before.
## #
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*# # ## #
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* *#
* * # * * *
# * * She was hanging clothes outside,
*# # #
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* and the wind started to come down the mountain.
* * ### *#
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*#
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# * *#
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* # * * * *#
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* # * * * * *
* * # *
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*
* I loved her, and she loved me, more than life.
*
*#
* # * * * *
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Followed the bum from the interstate; watched him from a distance; and
waited until he slept before crawling closer. The bridge rumbled, and
the air smelt like piss. Knelt down and stared at him,*there, ashes
and trash, sleeping, dreaming. Wondered about his thoughts right
before he drifted off to sleep. He might not wake up tomorrow; might
wake up to a pain radiating out from the center of his chest, down his
arms, down his legs, no light, eyes closing around a black sky.
Nearer, watched*his breathe sprinkle the air with snow flakes. Brushed
his cheek with the back of my hand; stepped back, crouched below the
horizon, and remained still. The bum was motionless, silent, but I
knew he was awake,*skin and eyes, ears and nose, a mind not knowing
which way the wind was blowing. Wanted*to climb, my black silhouette
rushing forward, and soon, my cold hands around his throat, drowning
him in his own spit. He soon fell back to sleep, not ever knowing the
reason why he woke up to a quiet black sky. She would always do the
same, even if it was to only stir, after a*strange noise, after a
draft of wind, only that she sometimes remained awake a little longer,
imaginary shadows crossing a black framed window, and felt her heart
race. Myself, sometimes I would wake up in the middle of night, and,
strange, find my mind empty, frantic almost, no place, no purpose, no
name, and after, my name is, I'm right here, I'm doing this tomorrow,
fall back to*sleep just the same. Stay awake past the seventy seventh
hour; what if you went to sleep and you never woke up, she teased once
you know, and tell me then, your last thoughts right before you fall
to sleep. I crept closer, didn't care if she, the bum, or if anyone
heard me, soon, real soon, after the seventy seventh hour. Left the
bum there, fucker's gonna wake up to another day,*new purposes, new
places, new names; left the cunt a long time ago, or maybe she left
me, doesn't matter anymore, she has her prayers I have mine, the
prayer after*the seventy seventh hour.
*
Don't fucking drive a car, idiot; walk, take the bus; and position the
body to sleep; that's right, no coffee, no mindless stunts, only
position: supine, tittering on the edge of the black lapses!
she only dated you to get near someone better, and you two broke up
not because of an absence of love but because one person didn't want
to share, further a lie, you'll lose, just because you haven't yet,
doesn't mean you
won't.
Only reason to court to check whether someone can keep their promises,
that be make money, shelter, protection, smarts, muscle, misc., or to
find out their promises are a lie, not going to do enough to ensure
eternal life, so to seek someone who can without wasting anymore
youth/time. He didn't need to change that, she left him on the cold
beach, right before the pacific expanse, maybe because he/she sensed
that he couldn't ensure that she/they would live forever, that meant
changing/continuing the world and people to make sure their baby had
the best chance to continue the same.
And he risked everything, risked even hope.
Life is cheap.
He no longer had any promise anyone could trust. They are changing the
world and people by force to insure their eternal life; he expected to
help them or something.
Mom and Dad worked till they both drop dead one day, and for what.
They would never understand, any moment God's wrath rained merciless.
*
1: water purifier, 2: instant live eggs, 3: growth food; guaranteed to
live two years; 95 cents postage and handling
I'm alive, the fiery mountain, the day after the 77 hour.
Most normal nights, not any thoughts, stop prayers long time ago, only
wake up to another morning, an intermission, plenty food and plenty of
women, some snapping at bling bling, others a couple of nods when they
speak of stuff, then, eventually, curtains closing, opening, mangas
colored rojo, the cream rising to the top, crap sinking.
Possible state of mind after the 77th hour: fucking really tired, and
like any other night, not caring to ever waking up again; at the
steppe of the black mountain; or, wondering what 38402 93845 02038 938
9 84 9 is up to. State of body: p 100, bp 150/90, r 25, t 36.0
Possible states of the body and mind after love: some bodily fluids
over a white sheet, maybe some moaning if she really loves you; or
someone in a trashcan, let someone build on a lie, someday a house of
cards crashing down.
Stone hammers
Blue toaster waved at little Red saucer.
"Hi!"
Little Red saucer started to cry.
"Super glue has put me together again."
Blue toaster nodded.
"A day smashed and put together again later."
Copper tea pot appeared.
"Day and night; morning, noon, afternoon, evening, and night; twenty
four hours?"
Little red saucer stopped crying.
"some pieces missing, missing parts filled in with super glue. I'm
supposed to be stronger now."
Copper tea pot left so did blue toaster.
"Bye."
Little Red saucer started to spin, around and around.
Salt shaker in a glass of water speaks to artificial sweetener, TA
diner remember, I80, East of Chicago, 97
"And why does your love include having more than one baby?"
"Nobody wants to stop your love!"
"If anything, she wants to strength it. Nothing better than two
people, even with death we'll never part, everyone, everything, else
fucking corrupting that, adulterated it." Really fucking sickening, we
think.
"No one's gonna come between your precious love, silly; you two have
nothing else."
"Unless something else is going on, something to do with your eternal
life, killing other life, halting any other life from having a chance,
or something, you think."
"16 8 4 2, and guess what, there is more mercy in that than the mercy
given to others.
"Live with it, we all don't for very long, you'll figure that out.
The green tree sits on a hill in the desert. I was at the base and
looking up. There was a space that one could climb into and disappear
from everything, at least until fall.
Stuff to do during the day so as to stay awake passed the 77th hour:
don't walk around, from one end of the city to the other; don't walk
down some railroad tracks, walk back; don't read; don't watch TV;
don't work, no fun; don't panhandle for loose change; don't protest
something; don't do anything, just rest, lay down, use only thoughts,
to repel the black lapses
*
* ##
Stuff to do during the night: write, from memory, from the past day,
then position self supine, feel the b. lapses creep. *
* ##
And put this thought in your pretty little head, maybe after another
and another black lapse, up until sometime after the 77th hour, more
and more parts of the whole world slowly disappearing, or something
weird like that, she will help me to lift the black mountain on this
place.
*
*
* *
Larry was holding the hand of a little child, then they both turned
and disappeared up the crooked path. He kept staring, imagining them
waiting for him but he knew he would never reach them in time. And he
wanted to there with them, alive, more than anything.
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He sat up, brushing some of the snow and sand off his legs. The wind
was starting to flow the opposite direction; he could see the mountain
above the horizon and the dark orange glow behind it. The mountain is
moving up and away.
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