Tag: Writing

Author’s notes at the edge of daylight

I thought I would do something different today and create a post about the notes I make when thoughts come to me at 5 a.m. and I get up and write them down in a frenzy, so I won’t forget what I was thinking while lying there in bed and worrying about the world and my place in it. I have to do it quietly and mostly without light, my way illuminated only by the glow of a computer screen in dark mode, so I don’t wake my slumbering wife.

What follows below are the unedited notes for Child of the Cabbage Ep. 6. Thought it might be interesting to share part of my process. I’ve debated in my head if I should post this before or after I write the actual piece. In one way, I don’t want to give details away, but on the other hand, maybe it will be cool for people to see how it all comes together, and from what… And hopefully generate some interest. Readers don’t know how it will actually turn out, and neither do I. So. I guess I will post it before.

I don’t always use notes to frame a story. Most times I just sit down at the computer with a small spark of an idea and start typing with absolutely no thought of where the story is going or what character is going to be bred from the dust. It just kind of happens. Some days my thoughts flow like water, other days they flow like cement in the desert. I’m positive every writer is familiar with how extremely frustrating it is to sit down and want to write so badly, but then nothing happens. It feels like failure. It feels like: “If I’m a writer, why can’t I write!?”

I’ve accepted that when I’m feeling blocked that I shouldn’t try to force it or what comes out will read as forced. It will be weak. As much as I want to write, at those times I just step away from it and wait for the ideas to come rushing back in… Which is often in the middle of the night or early in the morning while I’m tossing and turning in bed – like today. If I don’t get up and get the ideas out of me, no matter how incoherent and scrambled, I’ll lose them. It’s sort of like jotting down the details of a dream as soon as you wake up before they completely vanish. And my memory isn’t what it used to be.

As I said, the notes are in an unedited form, so please excuse the typos and disjointedness. I don’t stop to correct things when typing notes. I just go.

Thanks for reading.

Aaron Echoes August

The Notes

Gracelyn rides bike to school, stops at vinegar village when she hears hammering, meets a man mending a fence, his name is farm guy and they talk about names,

Gracelyn asks why the world is so hard on people, because we were hard on the world, pulling the nicest cat y the tail cat still turns on you, talks about greed, selfishness, upside down priorities,

A man sits in a fancy restaurant on one side of the world ad he’s given so much food he can’t even eat it all, and then he walks outside and everywhere he looks there are more restaurants overstuffing their guests and the food goes in the garbage bins and at the same time there are these people, on the other half of the world who walk around and they look like skeletons movig through all their dirt because they don’t have any food. They ie down at night to sleep but its hard to sleep because starvation hurts. How can we even have a word such as starvation when there is food being tossed away. That is one reason the world is so hard on people. There is so much carelessness n the act of kindness.

Talk about fat people vs. starving people on one half of the world, and how there are so many restaurnats and just put restaurants where the starving people are but that won’t work because the people n the hgigh towers don’t want that because the starving people can’t pay….they sit in tall shiny buildings of polished glass and stone and around long tables and talk about how they can squeeze more out of every man, woman and child, and it’s all very important to them, consumes them, so much time wasted on greed, and all this goes on under the nose of some caring creator who does nothing. And the whole conversation is about this lack of empathy throughout the world and then there are countries who decide to step over country lines just to kill and destroy and take and for what, for what purpose. A nod at Russia in Ukraine and the senselessness of all that and why isn’t anyone doing anything about it. Why doesn’t anyone fucking care!? This is why the world is so hard on people because people are so hard on people. And we invest in war and killing and destruction, billions upon trillions, to rape each other to death, to rip the earth apart, and for what? all that we have to cling to is love, yet we nurture it so little among ourselves, the people ofd the planet. I want to hold my wife forever and never let go. If this world ever takes her away from me, there would be a fury in me that I could not live

The world is so hard on people because the people are hard on the world. Look what they left us with. Total ruin except for a few lost wandering souls. We elevate orange fools to power and give weapons of mass destruction to mad men.

Do you know someone named Astron puffin…. He just vanished.

The cabbage farmer from hillsdale

Farm Guy isn’t a name, it’s just a description, and you don’t even really live on a farm

The role of Farm Guy should be played by J.K. Simmons

Pull the cat’s tail and even the nicest cat will turn on you and bite and scratch and scream.

Why, I should be named young girl then

Thatts ridiculous, youd me more like youthful female or metal female and your not made of metal are you

In some ways yes I am

Starting to get a wizard ofg oz vibe

Do you want to come in for milk and cookies. You have milk?

Yes

You have cookies?

Yes, I do

Astron looks down on the earth, spinning there on its fragile thread set to snap

And then where will the world go, he asks the green skin and blue hair aliens who talk in very deep slow voices like a tape recorder on slow speed

It will drop out of the universe like a plinko chip and there will be no prize.

They worship products, build great temples to honor all their producxts, milesand miles of storefronts, profit over people, that’s a big part of it,.

I don’t want to ever go back

But you may have to go back one more time

I think I will go lie back down I feel depleted .
The Doll Salon (Pt. 4)

Mature Content Warning: The following contains language that may be offensive to some readers. You’ve been advised.

The Rejectionists

Feldon felt like crawling into the eye of God and setting the world on fire as he climbed the stairs to his apartment. When he reached his floor, the hall was empty. He could hear a television blaring and some people arguing behind a few of the closed doors. There was always too much noise, he complained inside his own mind. Too much noise. Too much rattling around.

He put the key inside his lock and turned it, pushed the door open, and clicked on a light. Carl was still asleep on the couch, but his eyes were wide and there was that ever-present grin —like a crooked car salesman. He went into the bedroom and turned on a lamp there. Eve was still sitting in the chair beside his bed. He went over to her and kissed her gently on the cheek.

“Hello dear,” he said. “How are you? You and Carl haven’t been up to any nastiness, have you?”

He glanced at his rumpled bed, and it looked the same as when he left, yet he still wondered.

“I suppose you haven’t made any dinner, have you?” Feldon asked her. “No, I didn’t think so. Don’t you realize I’m hungry?”

It was then that the phone in the other room began to ring, and it startled him.

“Who on earth could be calling me?” he wondered, and then he went to answer.

“Hello?”

“Hello. May I speak with Feldon Fairtz please?”

“This is Feldon.”

“Hi Feldon. It’s Shirley, Shirley Humpsley from the Fifth Avenue Doll Salon.”

Feldon grew excited. “Oh yes. Hello! How are you?”

“I’m well, thank you. I was just calling as a courtesy to let you know that we have gone ahead and hired another candidate for the position here.”

“What?” Feldon said, suddenly deflated.

“We’ve hired someone else for the position, Feldon. Like I said, as a courtesy, we reach out to our other candidates to let them know. We feel it’s the right thing to do so you can carry on with your job search without wondering if you’ll ever hear from us. It’s standard practice.”

“So, I didn’t get the job?”

“No. I’m sorry.”

“But, why? What did I do wrong?”

“Nothing, Feldon. We just feel the person we hired had the strongest set of skills that matched our needs. Please don’t take it personally.”

Feldon grew angry over the phone. “But I have a very specific set of skills, Mrs. Humpsley! And strong skills they are! I am very talented, and I think this is absolute bullshit that you have decided not to hire me. It’s because I’m a man, isn’t it?”

“Please Mr. Fairtz, there’s no need to get nasty with me and use foul language. And our decision in no way reflects on your gender… Or anyone else’s.”

“Of course not, of course not, of course not!” Feldon repeated in anger. “It’s all straight talk and legit, isn’t it Shirley. It’s all politically so damn correct and sterilized corporate wise and all nauseating too. Well, I’m not buying it. This is a crock of crap, and I demand to speak to your supervisor!”

“Look here, Mr. Fartz!”

“It’s FAIRTZ!”

“I don’t care what it is!” Mrs. Humpsley snapped back in snappy black girl style. “I will not be talked to in this way, and if you ask me, Fartz fits you perfectly because you’re one hell of an asshole! Our decision is final, and I have nothing else to say to you. Goodnight, sir!”

She hung up.

Feldon held the cordless receiver away from his face and glared at it.

“I’ll get my lawyer you fucking bitch!” he screamed. “You violated my rights as a person! You assaulted me with words! Cruel words!”

He was breathing hard. His heart was racing. The phone was empty, and he suddenly flung it across the room, and it struck a picture of his dead parents that was hanging on the wall and it fell and broke. He turned to look at Carl. He was grinning chiseled mad, mocking him in mime.

“What the fuck are you looking at!?” Feldon screamed. “I just had a bit of trouble with a prospective employer. Nothing serious, Carl. Just look away. Please. Just look away from me!”

Feldon shuffled to the kitchen, reached into a cabinet for a glass and filled it with water at the sink. His hand shook violently as he brought the glass to his mouth and drank. It slipped from his hand, fell to the floor, and shattered.

“God damn it!” Feldon screamed. “Everything I touch turns into a disaster!”

He shuffled to the couch and collapsed into it. He leaned forward and put his face in his hands and started crying.

His face was wet with tears and his nose was stuffed when he reached for the box of facial tissues, yanked a couple out, and blew.

“God damn it,” he mumbled. “God damn it all to hell. It’s falling apart, Carl.” He turned to the mannequin, still half reclined on the couch beside him. “Do you hear me? I’m falling apart you son of a bitch. Don’t you care?”

There was no answer of course, just a wide, plastic grin and factory fresh eyes millions of miles away.

Feldon stood up quickly.

“Fine! Be that way, you prick! You may not give a damn about me and my life, but I’m sure Eve does. Oh, I know she does. See, she loves me. That’s right, Carl. We’re in love. And you better stop trying to fuck her or I swear I’ll kill you!”

Feldon stormed off to his bedroom and slammed the door.

He clicked on a lamp near his bed and the room was illuminated in a stormy, dreary kind of way. He knelt on the floor before Eve in her chair, touched her smooth, plastic hand and then looked up to her painted eyes of crystalline green.

“Eve, my darling. Gosh I’ve had a rough night. I was hoping that, just maybe, you’d be willing to lie in my bed with me tonight.”

He paused to study her reaction, holding the fabric of her dress to his face to smell it and wipe his damp skin.

“No, no, no,” Feldon reassured her as he patted her hand. “Nothing sexual. I just want to be close to you in my darkest time of need.”

He used his fingertips to move his hair back and craned his ear toward her.

“Of course I won’t be naked,” Feldon shyly answered. “I’ll wear my favorite pajamas. You know, the ones with the monkeys riding the trains. They must be circus monkeys, yes, circus monkeys, don’t you think?”

Then he giggled oddly.

“But of course, if you want to be naked, I won’t complain — not one bit.”

Feldon grinned, stood up and took Eve by the waist. He lifted her and took her to the bed, laid her down, and covered her with a sheet and blanket. Feldon stared down at her. Eve’s eyes were staring straight up at him.

“You look lovely,” he said to her.

Feldon quickly went to the other side of the room, stripped down and changed into the pajamas. He went into the bathroom, brushed his teeth, and swished mouthwash. He clicked off the bathroom light. Then he clicked off the little lamp by his bed and crawled in beneath the covers beside her. His heart was slightly pounding. He turned his head and tried to see her in the darkness, hoping his eyes would quickly adjust.

“Eve?” he whispered.

He reached to grasp her hand.

“I love you,” he softly said. “Eve? Did you hear me? I love you.”

It was silent except for the sound of a slow drip in the bathroom sink and the humming of traffic outside the windows. He propped himself up on his elbow at her side and reached out in the darkness. He held his hand just slightly above her nose and mouth. He felt nothing and then suddenly felt very alone and empty.

“Are you holding your breath?” he whispered to her. “Eve?”

He moved his face close to hers and gently rubbed his cheek against hers. “Oh Eve, why are you so cold to me? Is it Carl? Do you love Carl?”

He closed his eyes and fumbled in the darkness to find her mouth with his own. He awkwardly pressed his lips against hers and there was no reciprocation. He pulled back, ashamed and hurt.

He threw the covers off himself in frustration and moved to sit on the edge of the bed. He pawed at his face and ran his fingers through his mussed hair of pale cherry. Then there was a light tapping at the bedroom door and he snapped his neck in that direction. His heart began to pound uncontrollably. The light tapping came again.

“Who’s there?” Feldon called out through the darkness. “Carl? Is that you? Can’t you just leave us alone? Ever!”

The tapping turned to a harder knock, then a pounding. The door began to rattle in its frame. Feldon hurled himself out of the bed and yanked the door open. Carl was standing there with his high eyes and wide grin and his fist held up in the air, fixed to pound. He was illuminated from behind by the glow of the television from the other room. There was loud talking and then gunfire rattling from the speakers.

Feldon squinted. “Damn it all, Carl! I told you to leave us alone! And turn the television down!”

The mannequin’s fist suddenly shot forward and clubbed Feldon right in the face. He stumbled backward and clumsily fell to the floor. He suddenly felt dizzy and nauseous and then everything went dark and silent.

TO BE CONTINUED

By
Aaron Echoes August
The Doll Salon (Pt. 3)

The Psychiatrist

Dr. Frost was sitting in a chair across from Feldon and flipping through a file. He clicked a pen and scribbled something down. He was dressed in a shirt and tie and perfectly pressed pants. His shoes shined like the gates of Heaven. He was a man in his late 40s with a neatly bearded face and a high forehead with thinning dark hair slicked back over his scalp. He wore expensive glasses over his dark eyes and constantly sipped at lemon water during the sessions.

Dr. Frost was a serious man who seemed continuously annoyed at the less intelligent world that surrounded him. The doctor carried himself with an air of self-importance; he was a product of wealth and the best schooling, but it did him no favors because he was often looked upon by his colleagues as snobbish and close-minded. He had been trying to help Feldon for months now but was dismayed and often bored by his lack of progress. In fact, he felt Feldon was getting worse each time they met. The doctor folded his hands in his lap, cleared his throat and nodded his head with a fake grin.

“Are you ready to begin?” he asked in a firm yet soft tone.

Feldon was lying on the comfortable couch and staring up at the white ceiling.

“Yes.”

“How have things been since we last talked?”

“I got into a fight with Carl last night. I hit him.”

Dr. Frost readjusted himself in the chair and leaned in with some interest. How absolutely exciting, he thought to himself.

“Why did you hit him?”

“He was annoying me.”

“How?”

“It’s just every time I try to get close to Eve, he’s always right there. He’s always getting in the way.”

The doctor clicked his pen again and jotted something down in the file.

“I seem to recall that you had talked about asking Carl to move out. Maybe it’s time to do that. It sounds like things are getting a bit out of control.”

“I can’t just throw him out into the street. He doesn’t have a job. He’d never survive,” Feldon complained.

“I think it’s admirable that you care about the wellbeing of your friend, but you also have to consider your own happiness as well, Feldon,” the doctor replied.

“Happiness? What’s that?”

“I suppose it’s something different for everyone, but for you, I believe a sense of security and having less chaos in your life would be a start.”

“Maybe I should be the one to move out,” Feldon said. “I could just go away, somewhere else, and never come back. I just long to escape.”

“But Feldon,” Dr. Frost began. “Until you give up this idea that happiness is somewhere else, you’ll never be happy where you are. So, you see, it really doesn’t work. And you know why?”

“Why?”

“Because you’re with yourself wherever you go. You may be able to escape from a physical place where you may feel sad and uncomfortable, but in the end, no matter where you go, there you are. Does that make any sense?”

Feldon turned his head to the side and craned his eyes to look over at the doctor.

“No,” he said. “It makes no sense at all.”

Dr. Frost reclined in his chair, adjusted his glasses, and sighed.

“All right then, I see we have work to do in that area, but tell me, what about Eve? How did she react when you hit Carl last night?”

Feldon squirmed a bit on the couch. “She didn’t say much about it.”

“Nothing?”

“Not really. I think she was a bit shocked maybe. But I also think she’s messing around with Carl when I’m not there, so, you know, she didn’t want to act like she cared too much about him. I’m not fucking stupid.”

“So, you suspect they’re having an affair behind your back?”

“Yes,” Feldon said, with little hesitation.

Dr. Frost removed his glasses and rubbed at his eyes with his thumb and a finger. “Feldon,” he began. “I feel living with these two people is causing you a lot of unnecessary anxiety and worry. It’s unhealthy. I would strongly suggest separating yourself from them.”

“You want me to kick both of them out?”

“It may seem drastic, but I feel it’s for your own good.”

“But then they’d shack up for sure, just to spite me. I’d be sick to my stomach every single night. At least if we’re all in the same place, I can keep my eye on them. What kind of advice are you trying to give me? Are you sure you’re a real psychiatrist?”

“Feldon, please! I am not the subject of this session or any of your sessions. Let’s focus on this. You think they’re messing around when you’re not there, you said it yourself. What are you going to do when it goes too far and you walk in on them going at it in your own bed? Then what?”

“Why would you say something like that?”

“I’m just trying to help you realize how unhealthy all this is. You have to choose what’s best for you, not what’s best for them.”

“What if I asked her to marry me?”

“Who?”

“Eve.”

“I would put that notion on the back shelf, Feldon,” the doctor strongly advised.

“Why? Do you think I wouldn’t be a good husband to her?”

“It has nothing to do with that. You have far too many immediate issues to deal with. Marrying her would be a complete disaster for you.”

Feldon closed his eyes. His stomach hurt. “I’d like to talk about something else now.”

Dr. Frost sipped at his lemon-tainted water. “What would you like to talk about?”

“I had a job interview.”

Hmm, this should be interesting, the doctor thought to himself. “Well, that’s a positive step. What kind of job?”

“Working at a doll salon.”

“A what?”

“A doll salon.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s a place where people can bring their dolls for a makeover and what not. A salon… For dolls.”

“Are you making this up, Feldon?”

“No. It’s a real thing.”

Dr. Frost clicked his pen once again and wrote something down.

“What’s the matter?” Feldon asked.

“I’m simply taking notes. But why would you want to do that? Why would a grown man want to play with dolls for a living?”

“Are you questioning my sanity?”

“That’s my job, Feldon. But please, I want you to explain to me why you would want to play with dolls all day.”

“It’s not playing with dolls! It takes real creativity and skill to make a doll look beautiful and perfect. There’s hair and makeup to consider, the right dress, and accessories, too. Yes, you must know about accessories. These people pay good money for this type of thing, and besides that, I prefer human interaction with non-humans.”

Dr. Frost paused. He tapped his finger against his face and sighed with concern. “Do you realize how very odd that sounds?”

Feldon grew more defensive and sat up on the edge of the couch. “It’s not odd at all. There’s a real need for it for some people. It’s a service I’d like to provide, and I think I’d be good at it. I see nothing wrong with it. I thought you’d be pleased that I’m trying to put myself out there. Why are you trying to sabotage my progress!?”

“Just calm down, Feldon. There’s no need to get upset. I’m not trying to sabotage you at all. Please, lie back down.”

“I don’t want to. I want some chicken and coffee.”

“You want to leave?”

“Yes. I don’t think you are any help to me at all.”

“Have you been taking the ‘don’t be sad’ pills I’ve prescribed.”

“No. I’m making Carl eat them. I think that’s why he’s constantly grinning.”

“You shouldn’t do that. That medication is specifically prescribed for you. You could be causing harm to your friend, and yourself.”

“There’s trapezoids in my empty mind, doc. My empty mind.”

“Feldon, I want to see you more than once a week now.”

“Why?”

“I’m gravely concerned for your mental health.”

“Concerned? You mean you want more money, right?”

“That’s not it at all.”

“These are my last days, doc. My last days.”

“Are you feeling suicidal, Feldon?”

Feldon wanted to scream “YES!” at the top of his lungs, but he knew that such a response would surely be a death sentence anyway — a lie would spare him further agony and torture. “Of course I’m not,” he answered. “Don’t be silly.”

“Are you sure?” the doctor pried.

“Yes, I’m positive. It’s just that, well, sometimes life feels like a broken fucking record. Is that so immoral and worthy of persecution? Surely you feel the same way at times. You’re human, right?”

“I am,” he answered, and then the doctor leaned back in his chair and wrote some more notes. “I want you to come back on Wednesday, at 4.” He tore a piece of paper from a pad and reached out to hand it to Feldon. “And I’m prescribing you some more anti-anxiety medication. It’s for you, not Carl, okay?”

Feldon took the piece of paper and looked at it. The writing was indecipherable to him.

“I want you to take 8 pills a day, four at breakfast and four at dinnertime. Understand?”

“Okay. I get it. I’ll see you on Wednesday.”

Dr. Frost watched as Feldon depressingly dragged himself out of the office, and he noticed he was mumbling something to himself. Then the doctor looked down at the file, clicked his pen, and wrote the words: TERMINAL MADNESS in big, bold letters.

TO BE CONTINUED

By
Aaron Echoes August

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Nihilistic Karma

I was sipping nihilistic karma from a chipped cup
on a hillside overlooking a rainy funeral dirge,
the silver trumpets blared, the dead one stared
from out of the center of the box with locks
that held his corpse in nice and tight

The rain washed over me, soaked me
as the gloomy troop marched through the slop
and the joy boys lowered the casket with clumsy speed.
My finger slipped directly against the chip, a moment of clumsy stirring
the blood mingled with the nihilistic karma
my blood mingled with the rain
and I ran to the nearest club
for a warm wet towel and a cascade of hermit vibes

I sat at the bar, and it was like Saturn,
rings of smoke swirling and twirling
with the rhythm of the chocolate clocks
Gender-fluid barflies drowning in warm wet circles
dialing up centrifugal force against the grain,
and the rain came down like rubber sheets
spilled in through a shadowy doorway,
a stranger stepped through
shook like a dog
coughed out a fog
and motioned to the nearest conflagration

I turned away and sang a song to the barfly maidens,
a song I had heard a while ago
where they buried the man so far below,
they laughed and pawed
tore the coat from my back
and I ducked away to the nearest coma,
a dirty carnival rambling rough
a hidden room way off from here
a place of stone idols bathed in the grasp
of spindly limbs blindly grasping
beneath a wet canopy of gold and green
scattered across the stratosphere

And when the midnight shook
through the glass hallways of this dream
all my hopes and desires
became breathless and tight
I wanted her below me
creamy and shocking
bellyaching in the limelight
of this nightmare life,
flicking ashes on a wet lawn
hours before
another stifling dawn,
the moon cradled in such a tilt
as I screamed out
the agony of my loving guilt.
Italian Mexican Food

After 37 beers and a carton of Strikes, down there below those swirling, curling lights of the Piccadilly-like carnival on the inlaid pier, I gotten a sudden hankering for a bit of the ol’ south of the border chow — but there I was stuck in a sea of neon beach shops and surfer boutiques — head throbbing like mad and steaming ’cause I had to wait for the maintenance man to come fix my tub in my sixth floor room of the South Seas Lodge — that ghetto, oceanfront property with the metal doors with rusting scratchings of so-and-so loves so-and-so — and my room number was written on the door with a black marker, others were simply slips of paper with the room number scribbled upon it and then neatly stuck to the door with masking tape — high quality joint, yeah, but the view from the room was worth the 49.99 — those slamming waves crashing into the beach right below my balcony — after 37 beers and a carton of Strikes, it all looked pretty good through my grinning fog.

But there I was at dusk, wobbling down the steaming street that stretched on for miles in either direction, hotels, motels and bungalows all lined up, bumping each other shoulder to shoulder and I thought about how we have come to commercialize even nature, and how three-hundred years ago or so, those waves were still out there slapping at the shore, still rolling like white thunder, rolling and dropping their white and foamy fists against the land, pounding it hard like a drunk spring break boy does to some weekend Snow Off White, probably in the very same bed in which I slept upon, the one with the parrots and toucan’s brightly decorating the bedspread alongside the stains of lust and claw marks of a troubled head.

And I was stumbling along, the streets filled with people in skimpy clothes laughing and falling all over each other; the young, the old, everyone connected in their far-from-home fears and I felt like the only solitary being rushing along the waves of this pulse and so ducked into a beach shop for some sandals and found some ones made in China and they hurt my feet because they were too small, so I kicked them off when I walked the beach and watched them roll back out to sea, back home to China where a 9 is probably more like a 4 to us — because they are made by the small children — and I had asked the clerkie where a good place to eat was and he recommended a Mexican place that he liked to frequent, I said thanks and wandered out the door trying to remember the directions he gave me at the same time trying to not get run over by a car… but then again, I could be on Mars.

I saw it after stopping to piss in some gas station, and there it was, across the busiest street in the place and I thought I’d never get across, but I darted when the headlights died down and made it to the joint. I was the only one solo, of course, but I got a nice heaping of chips and salsa, ordered a couple of beers, and watched some Survivor, Fear Factor rip-off where Kens and Barbies were playing stupid games and it really meant the world to them, like it REALLY was important, not just another heap of trash entertainment to babysit our collective lazy and enslaved American minds.

I ordered the No. 11; a taco, burrito, and enchilada, but when the waiter brought it out, it was like I was eating Manicotti, or Rigatoni with some spicy beef inside. The sauce was tomatoey, not like the red sauce or the green sauce I got back in the Land of Enchanto, no, as if I stepped into an upscale Taco Bell in Florence, Italy. But I was hungry and I ate it and it was decent and I slammed my beer and stuffed my face and I was fat and full when I paid my bill — wandered out back onto the street, hypnotized by the guiding lights of cars and booming shops selling surfboards and kief, and there it was in all its glory, a Krispy Kreme donut shop, and even as full as I was I went inside that heaven of baked goods and ordered up a six pack of gut-clogging sin — so I was making my way back to the South Seas Lodge, made my way past the carnival, the Ferris wheel was so high and lit up like an acid trip, I saw the people just dangling there in the night like branches of a Christmas tree, they were all weighed down with the heavy lights of the amusement park. I stood and waited for someone to jump – like the unloved Thanksgiving at Wendy’s.

I walked along slow now, weighed down with the Italian Mexican food in my gut and a box of Krispy Kreme donuts. I made it across the main thoroughfare, the traffic was dying down a bit, it was getting late — found a little boardwalk that led to the beach, the tide was a bit higher now and the waves seemed to be grabbing at my ankles a bit more forcefully now, and when my heavy limbs made it to the sand, I almost collapsed, the beach was sparse with people, when at the height of day it was crawling with all sorts — I stumbled along, my eyes now stinging from all the spotlights beaming down on me from the right, the waves kept crashing to my left, and it was getting hard to walk in the sand, but in time I made it back to the South Seas Lodge, took the elevator to the sixth floor, it groaned as it slowly carved its way through the shaft, the stairs were in disrepair, and I thought if there was a fire, I’d surely burn or die from the jump — but it didn’t burn and I made it back to my room, threw my stuff down on the bed and went straight to the balcony to watch the waves, all lit up from the hotel floodlights, crash into the shore, so perpetual, unlike the heart that someday soon shall cease to trouble her.