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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: Tue, 03 Aug 2004 00:24:56 -0700
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===================
* * *
* *
green, yellow, orange, purple, red, blue, and black
* *
*
* * *
* *
*
* *
*
*
* * *
* *
* * * *
*
#
* # * * * * # *
* * * *
* * * * # *
* # * *
* * * * * #
# # *
## # *
*
# * * *
* *
* # * * #
*
# # * *
# * # * * * *
## # ## * *
* ## * ## # # * #
* ## * ## # # #
# # # ## *## ## * *
### # # * ## # # #
* # ##
* ## # ## ## ## *## *
# ## ## #
* ### *## # # * ## *
## * # # ## ## # ## ## *
* * ## ### ## ### * * *
* ## ## ## ## ## * ### *
*## ## ### # ### #### *
## ### ##### # # ## #
*## # # ##### # # # *
* #######
# ### # * *
* #### ## * * *
####### * *
* ## ### *
* * ## ### *
* ##### * *
########
##
* *
* *
* # # # #* *
*
*
* # # # *
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 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, but he hope that this
time he would be able to pass. And yet he felt they were coming more
and more merciless now, more than ever; he was starting to question
whether attempting the pass was worth the risk.
# # #
* # # # #
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 sentences 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. A long time ago, imagining before sleep also 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 past 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, kill in assorted ways, 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 and
began counting imaginary drops of water falling on a puddle, one, two,
three, faster and faster, ten, eleven. His thoughts were beginning to
go under and be washed away. "Don't stand up," he remembered, every
muscle in his body wanting him to. The black lapses 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
itself. 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. Past one, he thought to
himself; this can't be right; the mountain wasn't here. He repeated
the words from the memorized text, 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; he wanted to make sure he
actually past one. "The black lapses have been crossed, and for what,
for a never again.'"
## #
anything, slap the back of your hand!
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 have been never been past, the
last one like the early lapses, only grey and mistaken for black, and
this one not only threaten to drown him to sleep, this one physically
threatened to snap him out of existence. He started to count and
paused, the stars started to violently shake, the ground erupted, and
then began to repeat sentences over and over again, this lapse unlike
anyone of them experienced before.
## #
* ## * # * *
* #* # # * # * * *
* ## # # * # *
* ## * # # ##
* ## # ## #
* #### # ## *
* ## ## ## #
* ## # * * ## *
* # ## # *
* ##
# * # # ## *
* * ## * * *
# * # * ## *
* * # # *
* * # # # ##
* * # # # * # * ## *
# * * # # * ##
*# ##
* # #
* * * * *
# * * # *
* * # * * * *
* # # # * # # *
* # # * * *
# *# # # #
# # # # # # * # *
*# # ## #
* # * # *##
* # # *
* # # ##
# * # * *
* # * # * ##
* *#
* * # * * *
# * * She was hanging clothes outside,
*# # #
* #
# * # *##
* # * * * *
* # * * # # *##
* # # *# ##
* ##
# * ## *##
* # * * # * *
# * # * # *
* * # # *
* #*
* * * * *
# * * # * #
*##
* #
* * * * *
* #* * *
* * * #* * *
* # * *
* # * # * *
*
# * # *
* and the wind started to come down the mountain.
* * ### *#
* *
*#
* ## *#
* * * * *
# * *#
* * * *
* # * * * *#
* * * *
* # * * * * *
* * # *
* * # *
*#
* # * * * *
* * *
* * *
* * * *
* #
* *
*
* *
* * *
*
* * # * * * *
* * *
*
# * * *
* # *
*#
* *
* * * * *
* *
* * * *
There was this green tree on a hill surrounded by a desert, and this
boy was at its base and looking up. He saw that there was a space that
one could climb into and disappear from the death. The boy climbed up
the, tree, and he felt safe; he meet the gentle creature that never
died, that kept the death away there. They promised the boy to protect
him from the death. And then some monsters came; they came and rested
under the tree. The boy watched them grunt to each other. Then they
all left one behind the other, and a strange smear was left behind, a
purple light that was slowly spreading. The leaves turned red; the
black branches turned cold. He climbed down and followed them for
awhile. They spread the death much faster in their wake than the other
monsters that were here, the boy thought; there is more purple light
than the faint glow of the last monsters; these monsters will spread
the death faster. Some sounds were heard, and he saw them surround one
of the gentle creatures. The gentle being pleaded for the monsters not
to spread the death. The monsters didn't care; they wanted what the
last monsters wanted, whatever the hell that was. The gentle creature
didn't want to join the monsters so the gentle creature was torn to
pieces and eaten, munched from the rump all the way to the crown. The
boy shouted for them to stop but they wouldn't, they even turned and
smiled. The boy stared to run away; he was really scared, he didn't
wanna get munched either. The green tree on a hill surrounded by a
desert is no longer there, and all the gentle creatures have been
murdered and eaten. Now there is only the purple light and the few
remaining monsters.
* *
* *
*
* *
## * *
* * * *
* * *
He felt the purple pulsation, and was scared. He didn't know exactly
how but he sensed that maybe he was one of those monsters and that one
of the gentle beings was trying to communicate with him, the death is
spreading too fast.
One of the gentle beings then touched his cheek, and he started to
cry. He too wanted to reach out, touch the gentle being, put his lips
on her, maybe munch her a little, but the pulsation went black, and he
was pull under, and was drowning again.
* * ## *
* ##
*
* *
* * * *
* *
* * * *
The cold wind started to come down the mountain.
* * * *
* *
* ##
##
* * *
#
* *
# *
* *
* * * *
* *
* * * *
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. Began to wonder 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 but he soon fell back to sleep, not ever knowing
the
reason why he woke up to a quiet black sky. I picked up a rock and
placed it forward, and then moved the rock back to its former
location. The bum didn't stir. Stared at the rock and happened to
think of her. She would always do the same, never even stir, but
sometimes, after a*strange noise, after a draft of wind, awake a
little longer, believing that shadows were crossing the black framed
window, she sometimes noticed a difference but then she would always
fall asleep and forget. I buried the rock. The bum won't even notice
the difference when he wakes up tomorrow. 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 not caring
about the difference, only wanting to sleep, with a name or not. Stood
up. Stay awake past the seventy seventh hour; what if you went to
sleep and you never woke up, she teased once, and tell me then, your
last thoughts right before you fall to sleep. I looked down at the
bum. I wanted to creep closer, didn't care if she, the bum, or if
anyone heard me, soon, real soon, after the seventy seventh hour.
Stood there, wondering who put all those thoughts in my head right
before sleep, not her, 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, and wondered there too long.
The bum was beginning to open his eyes as the sun behind me climbed.
And then there was only a scream. *
*
* *
* * * *
* *
* * and the wind came down the mountain. *
*
* *
##
*
*
Don't fucking drive a car, idiot; walk, take the bus; and position the
body to sleep at night; that's right, no coffee, no mindless stunts,
only position: supine, tittering on the edge of the black lapses!
* ##
Blue toaster waved at little Red saucer.
"Hi!"
Little Red saucer started to cry. ##
He 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, the truth being, you'll lose, just because you
haven't yet, doesn't mean you won't, see right over here, your soul
stops, and guess what, little critters were playing over where your
soul stopped, little greens ones, blue, and orange ones; they were
really funny.
"So what you gonna do with that secret?"
Little red saucer stopped crying. ##
"Be sure to get pregnant next time before someone really gets to know
me."
Blue toaster nodded.
##
Some thunder was heard, and rain drops began to fall.
Copper tea pot appeared.
"Super glue has put me together again."
##
Little Red saucer started to spin, around and around.
"A day smashed and put together again later."
A tea bag peeped.
##
"Some parts missing, missing parts filled in with super glue, supposed
to make you stronger now."
Copper tea pot didn't like that so she left so did blue toaster.
"Bye."
They looked back and only saw a tea bag on a red saucer.
*
*
Some blue critter was being hurt. And she asked what are all the
motives to kill, to hurt, and the little blue critter cried out before
being slapped in and out between some pink bums, to eat and continue
the soul, to fuck and further one's soul. *
*
*
* *
She left him to stand there alone.
*
*
He plunged downward, further and further, and the sentences were
starting to change; they were getting stranger; he felt they would
eventually lead him to the source of the wind, the mountain, to the
very last sentence.
*
*
*
#7#
# *
#
* And he stood there alone. #1
#
*
##4
#
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, go down to the park, lay down
under a tree, use only thoughts, to repel the white lapses,
*
* 5#
Stuff to do during the night: write a little, from memory, from the
past day,
then position self supine, and wait for black one's.
*
* #6
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 her and the whole world slowly disappearing, or
something
weird like that, finally the black mountain will be lifted off on this
place, off and away, something cool like that.
*
*
Sleep, sleep, sleep, tomorrow will be different, you'll be able to
live with the promises you broke, and then one day you won't even wake
up at all, entered his mind, and these were unlike the grey lapses,
these were more honest, he wouldn't be able to keep his promise to the
child left on the mountain, the black lapses kept him from coming any
closer. He stopped the sentences, she didn't leave him, he didn't
leave her, never any relationship, maybe only a one night stand, he
needed to be honest to himself, and he was never alone, not then, not
seven years later, he belonged with those in the black patch, only
motives to keep thought going, he hoped to use them to be able to keep
his promise but they weren't enough, they didn't keep him awake, and
he sure didn't want them to be his last thoughts. He wanted the black
mountain; wanted the day after the seventy seventh hour; he wanted to
keep his promise, the promise that started the wind to come down the
mountain. He remembered seeing a bug in a toilet; and he remembered
how the wet bug felt in his hand as he walked towards an exit; and
then he began to plunge again, black.
*
*
"Bitch, you ain't got no mojo."
Some funny little critters were dancing around an old couple, and some
danced better than others.
"So you two have been together for over fifty years."
"See those two boys near the tree watching the girl over there?"
The couple nodded to the girl.
"The girl thought she loved one of the boys a little more but then one
boy killed the other boy so then the girl ended up loving the boy that
was still around. Why?"
The woman looked at her husband and said, "it's a trap; she wants to
lure us in."
"Or how about those two girls watching that boy; one of the girls died
and the one still around ended up being loved by the boy."
"Why."
The old man started to break dance, and the old woman put her hands on
her knees.
"Ever wonder how two people come together?"
The critters started to run away. They both shrugged.
"Boys and girls die so you two can be together."
[more of the same, surreal stuff, lucid dreaming etc.; first part
introduction to the phenomenon: inability to stay awake, and if awake
for too long the body and mind puts an end to that through, call them
whatever, black lapses, nodding off, and why so, what thought is it
trying to prevent the mind from putting together; and then what
follows, second part, the usual, some stuff that'll have gramps or
some future gramps mad, same fucking gramps thinking they be the whole
reason why world and other people, ideas, are existent, since the
whole world rests on their shoulders, of course, or something; and
then the requiem, third part, maybe the kid gets to the mountain, the
day after the seventy seventh hour, or maybe this lapse finally puts
him down, or maybe he wakes up the next morning, one day closer to
death, one day closer where he will be no more.
Where does the soul of a person go when the person dies?
Is the soul the same as personality?
Why has man concealed that the soul is really passed on and on through
fucking and stuff. There is evidence for that, anywhere someone is
watching someone else hold their infant child. The infant is usually
thought as a separate person, as if the child can belong to anyone,
when, evidence contradicts that, and that may explain many motives.
Maybe some souls are better than others, look around, read some
history books, lot of people look strangely a like. Anyway, stuff has
been covered, boring kinda, reason why people get up in the morning,
reason why they'll do anything to further their soul. If the soul can
be furthered 2 4 8 16, some turkeys sacrificed on the way, then it
sure as hell can be furthered 16 8 4 2.
Does thought have a soul, 43972 92873 39201 83722?
]
*
The remains of the dead baby were on one of the mountain's ledges.
And that makes all the difference, pieces of a person still here, if
not the soul, still alive, and another dead and listening to a
cricket. Don't even need to listen to a cricket to learn that, proof
in us all, alive today, well as sure to be alive tomorrow.
Wonder who you killed on your way to
They may not be dead now but they'll be dead, and you'll/you both
still be around somewhere, some future someone gazing off then
unexpectedly smiling, that be you/you both smiling, some piece that
was in you now in them,
Good title for a story: wonder who you killed on your way to a happy
life.
Can you see the soul in one person, say a father or mother, and see
that same soul in one of their children, and doesn't have to be
complete, that is, interfere with the autonomy of a person, but, I
guess, also known as a characteristic, like a smile, she has her
father's eyes, she has her mother's temper, maybe same thing as the
soul; don't know that much about the stuff.
Anybody alive must have a good soul then, they be alive, anyone else
dead.
DNA are the instructions that put life together; if anywhere the soul
be in there; our souls are carried forward by our children, et al
spiny C+.
maybe you're afraid she cares more, so many ways to do nothing in this
life; why didn't she happen to fall into one;
think and write, think and write, think and write, think and write
1997, seven years ago, took me awhile to put it together, only
instructions that put life together, only instructions.
Cut and slice,
And then there's 1997, some killings still happen the same old way,
left on a mountain top, the woods, or a salt shaker in a glass of
water,
what is this soul in man, the soul is a mother or father holding their
baby, and the soul is passed on and on. Can the soul stop, sure can,
by not having a baby, that's the reason why making sure the soul
continues is so important,
make black white, wrath to grace, pop songs, and cool sit-coms.
He killed a man's/woman's soul from continuing and got fifteen years.
He got out and married, and had two children. Some souls are sure
better than others.
On and on, and on and on,
The tail will catch up to the head someday.
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. Don't need to hear your soul will stop too.
*
Your soul continued here but others changed here all so their
souls could continue better, that make any sense.
Dude scratched his head. There changing here more and more.
Yup
Makes you wanna try to change stuff too uh.
My soul has gone as far as possible.
I have no right. What right does anyone have? Some souls are better
than others. Proof is in the pudding, and everything that come after
because of that.
-
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.
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.
*
*
* *
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.
* *
*
* 14 * * 86*
* 95*
239 * 59
7
* * ## *
* *77
* * * ## * 68 *
* * *
*## ##
* #
* # ##
* *# # ## ##
455 ## ## ##0 # ## *
* * # ### # # ## ### ##### *
* * # #4# ## # # ## #### ###
* * ### ## # ### ### # ### ####
* 1# ## # ## ##### ## ## ## ### #7##
* ### ## ### # #6# ## # ## ### # ## ## ##
## ## ### ### ### ## ### # ## # ## # #
* ## ## ## #### 45## #### ### ## # #### # 6# # # ## ## ## ###
## ## * * *##
* # ## *
* ## ##
## * ## ###*
## ## #
* * ## ##
#* * ## ## * ## * *
## * * * ##
* ## ##
*## ##
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 was
moving up and away.
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