THINK! Column #3
THE LIMITS (pt. 1)
I've been taking a lot more walks lately, dropping off newsletters in the little libraries. Punishment by proxy! A great big fakeout! Congrats, you have in your hands what looks like a punk zine but is actually 6-10 pgs of RFK's Exhibit A when it's time for my Tismternment at the Barron Trump Wellness Camp. Nerds, sloths, masturbators, they're coming for you and me alike so I'll see you on the chain gang for another 12hr shift spent smashing Kristi Noem's dog's head in for tinkling outside of designated tinkle time.
Walking, yes. Talking to myself? Maybe. Leave the house, buy thing, eat drink or play with thing. The headphones are on and it's FLOWER POWER or PARKING or FU-SCHNICKENS or C. Did you hear ever this band? Japanese band that took a chance on a letter that wasn't X, wrote an album called "Dear Fuckin' Shit All The Fascists +2" and if that doesn't make it move then it's no wonder RFK's coming for the punks last: you're their greatest warrior. 9 songs bop bop bopping on the bass and stacc stacc staccato on the drums, Steve Ignorant and Pete Wright jamming with D and Mike Watt. Fucking corndogs, but not for the cat, and on the walks continues.
Last week, the walks included NEVADA, fresh from their 10th tour just this year, out and about with HIRS or BLACK EYES and lord willing they'll regale us with those many torrid tales in these here pages soon-like. They were here for 9 days cut down from 10 and I saw them about half, rounded up for soup, chai, matcha, pastry, tacos. I like my quiet walks of solemn contemplation as much as the next red-blood american male, but it was nice to have a companion during daytime hours with whom I waxed nimrodian.
B_____, my neighbor, was out tending the garden during the one most recent. He plays picture pages on the same sets I shepherd, shifting chairs for 12 hrs and moving coffee cups lest we break the immersion when one pretty person screams at another, or professes their love, or pantomimes real good for Post. I'm certainly losing my lust for the whole ordeal, though not for eating or shelter, and it seems he's not far off what with all the garden tending, but my walks and the trimming and the snip snip snip of the sheers has afforded us enough time for the small talk to grow big before our very eyes. "Oh how's the dog?" "Fine, and how's the leg?" and now we're talking about our parents and planning potlucks and parting with a friendly embrace.
At the end, again most recent, check my messages, one from justa, lowercase, always. Older guy I know from the depths of the dead ccg underground. Creative, prolific, maybe somewhat lonely. His family lives closer to me than he now, or so I'm told. Won't speak up in the group chat, but always sends me reassurances and advice and confides to me directly. He told me recently he didn't feel qualified to speak on such and such topic and I responded, like I often do to Jeeny, that I believe in some circumstances that makes you even more qualified. I told him I wished I could give him a great big hug. Selflessness is selfish, I think I need one, too.
Everything feels... Feet go slow, muscles weighed down, air feels thick, distended, pregnant. I walk and walk and the concrete's uneven, shifting with every step as the earth beneath reaches a rolling boil. The sirens go off and you wonder who is it this time and the choppers overhead and you wonder if its passengers are the cause of all this or are they just passing by, observing. I walk and I trip and the concrete is bubbling and covered in bird shit and black black black gum and my legs are tired and the door is locked and I forgot the keys and I climb through the window and see the ants have breached the cracks in our walls and our floors and I collapse into bed and contemplate the absolute limits of everything. (End pt. 1)