Mictli could never understand why it was that people didn’t seem to want to take the time to know one another. Sometimes he wondered if they heard each other at all, or if they were mostly terrified to listen, terrified to hear the stories that the world has been trying to tell itself since it began. Afraid of having to rebuild, to destroy, to question, to become something new. Or maybe the constant rush and mumble was a self-comforting behavior, like rocking yourself to sleep under your blanket on your knees.

Sometimes when he entered society, he felt as if he were moving on a different temporal plane, as if he couldn’t catch up with people. Probably why they had put him in all the advanced classes as a child. They mistook his utter inability to make sense of how one was supposed to do things with originality.

He needed time to look things over. Things change shape even when you notice them. The world talks back to you at all times. But you have to be listening for it, watching for it. Were people really so brilliant that they got everything about everything so very fast? To Mictli, it seemed that before he could make up his own mind about a moment, others had ruled on it. He learned to move with them, lift his eyebrows properly and then offer his own similar thoughts. He became very good at this. Sometimes he’d completely forget that he was playing along. Sometimes he mistook himself for the reflections cast by his earthly form. Sometimes he lost the boundary between his own aching arms and that of the silhouette of the televised conductor.

The man had stopped talking about Brown University, or the seismic sensors in the shed, and was plucking tines now with someone else. Mictli felt the sun fall on his cheek as he turned to walk back home. He felt the blue of morning roaring through his bones. Holding his paper bag close to his side, he stepped through the automatic door.

The air from outside washed over him with a faint pear scent that he could not place. The world is always a garden, too, he thought. He imagined his smile as a tiny hawk, soaring through the sky of his mind.

The last time Niqo felt this rumbling it had been on a ship, not a planet. He had been nine the last time his people fled an Imurgic planet in a Leaving. He is 109, now. The Cuardaq typically live to around 300  years of age, and while still young, Niqo is well-respected, and not only because of his family line but for how he spends his time. Mostly tending Public Garden #3, where he sits this evening.

The rain falls hard on the silent man, as he sits in the downpour. His eyes are focused on the smokey, golden horizon, and if the pelting drops bother him, it doesn’t show. He has all the time in the world, in one sense. Or certainly no reason to rush around.

It was just in March that he had received news that he was to be honored in the groundbreaking ceremony on the new planet for his work in the community. Many said he was taking after his father. He mostly nodded and smiled to so much of that…he had plans none of them knew about, even then.

The rain seems gleeful to be alone with him now, falling with a velocity nearly hostile. It pounds into the stones and the soil and his forehead and the leaves of every plant in the Garden as if it is throwing itself a planet-claiming party. It’s all yours now, Mother, Niqo thinks, his dark brown, rain-slick skin shining in the setting sunlight. I’m just here to hand it off, if you don’t mind.

But the rain doesn’t answer, doesn’t listen, doesn’t slow. Today, nothing a man wants will matter. And how long the planet has waited.

Niqo lifts his glass of scotch, which is by now watered down considerably from the rain. The taste has grown sharp and sour. He swallows it in one gulp.

–

The last rites were observed last month, and everything since then has been preparation. A Joyful, tearful, whirlwind of ceremony, tears, speeches, parties, rituals, gifts, last grasps, last flings, last words, last looks…. Niqo’s experience of the Leaving is much different this time than it was when he was a boy. But he is a man now, and his life has been filled with many people and moments and lessons since then. He wonders if the years bring weight more than anything else. Weight upon your body that wears it down to dust. Weight upon the mind that brings a caution and regret.

Or maybe it’s just him. Niqo smiles at his morose turn of thought. It’s the rain, he thinks. The sky’s sorrow is filling my heart.

A planet in an Imurgic Spring becomes deadly to human beings, and in more ways than a human being can possibly prepare for. The water becomes a slow-acting depressant to the central nervous system, the plant life becomes caustic to the skin, the air gradually ceases to hold enough oxygen. The entire eco-system shapes itself deliberately fatal to human beings. There are competing scientific theories as well as endless philosophical discussions (and even college courses) dedicated to whether or not the Imurgic condition evolved as a means of cleansing the Cuardaq people from the Universe, a cosmic immunological condition to solve a particularly resistant strain of mammal. There are still no definitive answers to this, and the entire discussion ceases to interest Niqo mostly because whether or not it’s personal, Imurgic planets are deadly to him and people like him. And that’s all he needs to know.

Niqo has one last hand to play in the entire game, however.

—

The first time Niqo’s ancestors learned about the Imurga had been four hundred years before Niqo was born. Of course it remains a core lesson in Cuardaq history. After all, that lesson was what set them all in motion, was what culled 80% of them from the planet upon which they had begun, what had yanked those celebrated ancestors from the world of the living.

It was, by every account of the word, a massacre. Doctors mistook the various illnesses and environmental problems as separate conditions and events for far too long. Thousands upon thousands died before anyone began to think in new ways, ways that led to the very first understanding of the seemingly endless series of new diseases, new conditions, new hazards, new dangers….and tied them together as an apparently conscious effort by the planet to kill off human beings.

The Book, as the Cuardaq people call the history and lessons of their kind, is stocked with the classic gruesome images: The Green Morning, The WorldWide Scream, The Last Tangle, The Parting, The Escape…. Some complain, as time between the first Imurgic Morning goes by and fades somewhat in the collective memory, that the Cuardaq History texts used in school should be modernized a little, so that their history didn’t seem to have at its core a grisly horror story. The typical petitions for less shocking images, etc, are passed around. But each new phase of the Imurga on a new planet quickly quells or shrinks that margin of voices. Most of the Cuardaq are aware at all times that to forget this history is to fall into another Tangle, and from one they might not escape.

On the other side of the spectrum from those who want to shy away from the troublesome history the Cuardaq share are those who jump at the appearance of any new sprout that pokes its head from the soil each Spring. It is they who begin packing as early as January, when the ships aren’t to leave until June—still 3 months earlier than the dangerous phases of the Imurgic Spring appear. And it is they who often lapse into total anxiety the last month or so before the Leaving. Thankfully, their numbers are small.

Unfortunately, all manners of mental stressors and conditions worsen during this time. Ignoring this reality is what led, in time, to the Cuardaq initiating the Leaving three months earlier than historically observed.

But that’s a story for another day.

—

It’s not easy to move an entire civilization, even one as small as that of the Cuardaq people’s. But there is no arguing the phases that precede Imurgic Spring. The rapid disappearance of entire animal species. The temporal changes. The dangerously acid levels of water. Finally, the reversal of seasons.

The planet has entered the last stage that Imurgic planets host before they become inhospitable to humans. Though not yet dangerous, the appearance of small vines with blisters as green as lime-candies have begun to sprout forth from every tree, every lilypad, every patch of moss and they bring a bright note of alarm. Come winter, these blisters will begin breaking. After that, one must avoid contact with all plant life. This is harder than one might think.

This July marks the fourth time the Cuardaq have moved, and whether it is their luck in eco-systems or simply the universe growing more Imurgic over time, Niqo does not yet know. But as they are an adaptive People, they have come to think of this coming and going and watching the signs of nature so as to keep out of her way a manner of living, not something to fight, or overcome, or stop.

The Cuardaq learned long ago that a thorough education is paramount in banishing this kind of fear. Typically, by the time children are five they can identify Imurgic vegetation as well are recite the story of the First Leaving, complete with environmental cues in linear order.

Plants that resemble Imurgic strains in any way were long ago declared against the law to grow. There aren’t many, but nobody wants to have them lying about. It has proved easier to outlaw them, than to deal with the distraction.

—

Niqo’s hand lays folded out upon the ground. He had been reaching for the scotch. But now it rests on the wet grass, his knuckles grazing the flattened stalks. The skies are still again, the ships have gone, the bottle is forgotten, and the old man sits deep in thought. The sun is red, and her last rays envelope Niqo’s lined forehead with care. On this planet quickly growing malevolent, it seems a noble charity to give this last human clinging to her surface.

Niqo lifts his eyes, then, to the garden before him. He sits at the community center, Public Garden #3, now surreally empty. Dusk has moved on and in the darkness, his is the lone figure. But of course, all the streets and buildings and gardens are abandoned tonight.

The truth of it is, nobody knows that Niqo chose to stay on the planet’s surface. His choice to remain behind was communicated to only one person. And even then, not directly. And before she could respond, Niqo had gratefully accepted her embrace as a way of forgetting his confession, and then he had taken more from her. And as always, she was more than happy to give to him. And he had forgotten for the rest of the night, though now her face hangs before him no matter which way he turns his gaze.

But those whispered promises and unadorned admissions belong to stories Niqo will tell himself in his mind in the coming days, as he walks an empty city preparing for a sacrifice he has long felt was his to make.

For now, he sits drinking from a scotch glass as soon as the sky refills it, watching the communal gardens droop under the pre-Imurgic deluge. The dark water lays heavy on the bent leaves, dragging them down to the soil, shaping into barbs underneath. Gleaming blackly as the earth drinks up her own evening aperitif.

It’s like a day of rimjobs on Ecstasy squeezed into an unhappy half-minute at the Dentist’s Office, he thinks, his head agoo with the strange, bright energy often careening about his mind in the wake of the Plug. Almost lost my way in the Milky Way, he thinks, turning off the timer.

He pauses to squint through a darting cloud of bright and dark in his vision; it is as if he is blacking out in reverse.

“A Swarm of Pinprick Stars as your own royal mosquito horizon,” he shouts, partially to keep himself oriented. “The bloody track marks of Cosmic Dust all spattered across your mental margarine!”

Undoing the straps, still breathing hard. Rising from the cockpit. The echoes of his voice go on for a long time.

“Remember!” shrieks the attractive, large woman by the pod, “We don’t count visits to your own lifetime or consciousness!”

You’re not really here he thinks, not believing himself. But she flickers with a blue sheen and vanishes, still smiling warmly as he passes her. She reappears ahead of him at the door.

“I thought you wanted to talk,” she says, suddenly sounding sad. “I stayed up late.”

He walks on, the walls of the room fading behind him. He is tempted to turn his head and see if she is watching him, but he knows there’s no point to that. The seduction quality of static is overrated. He especially feels that way at the end of a session. There’s a wet spot in my soul, he thinks, and laughs at the thought.

Outside, he jumps into  a Zoomer and begins rolling up his sleeve hurriedly.

“To the Oval Office, of course,” he says to the driver. “And remember to follow me on Twitter, you fuck.”

“Yes, Mister President” says the man in whiteface as they come to a traffic circle. “Though I prefer Google Chat for all my professional interactions.”

i went to the art store yesterday and spent twenty dollars on pens. twenty dollars is no small expenditure and no casual choice when you need five thousand dollars or so for your mouth. but i won’t let poverty crush me, steal pens and color and joy from me. so i went and decided to bring home a good pad of paper and a pocketful of pens.

i bought all pink pens. pink, magenta, red. nice pens. different size nibs. i came home and tested them. ridiculously, none work as nicely as a cheap pink ballpoint i own—the one i began with—that came free with a cheesy keyring thing. pink is important, as i have a project planned.

people dont look at ballpoint as a serious fine art tool. but i’ve been using them for so many years. in so many notebooks. so many classes where i was making doodles. diaries. i love ballpoint. it’s fluid, it rolls, my wrist can get greasy. it is a preferred tool. i do seriously detailed work with them. yet, that i know of, there is no “professional” set of ballpoints. they are ignored. at least in colors. there are a number of sweet black ballpoints ive tested. anyway, this is very frustrating.

the paper is, of course, somewhat intimidating, being all creamy and costing money. yet, not sure it’s ideal either. the paper doesn’t quite yield as softly as the pad i was using. it is tougher. harder. i don’t like that so much, my paper defying me as i write. i can deal with a little attitude, but this paper seems a bit too opinionated. anyway, i think i can make it work.

however, the pens i’m not sure are useful at all. oddly. i wonder if i can make this tiny pink pen last the whole series of drawings? probably not and then i’ll be stuck. i’ll be biking around in search of a very particular shade of pink ballpoint. of course, this will become my quest. self reflexively, i’ll love the idea of it as a story in and of itself. and at that point, i’ll decide to turn my quest into a movie.

so i’ll break out my cameras and get various angles and types of shots, a mini documentary of me looking for this pen, biking around town, talking to merchants, i’ll have conversations on the way. and i’ll have to explain why i want a pink pen to people. this will allow me to address one of the themes of Pink and Pretty: the vibe of Pinkness. and first i’ll be all awkwardly or overcompensatingly explaining why i need a pink pen and distancing myself from it. self conscious. but by the end of the film, i’ll have a totally different vibe in talking about it. i will own the pink. and thus the theme is realized and a character’s narrative arc fulfilled.

but before i’m done editing this video, some indie company will have read this blog and will have stolen this idea and made a film based on an nearly identical plotline. it will be edgy and sweet and relevant and genderfantastical and social justicey and yet a simple human drama. they’ll throw in two love interests that develop on the way, one boy and one girl. and the movie will be a quick huge smash and win film festivals and the person who stole it from me will get rich and famous and i’ll still be trying to save up for a root canal and writing blogs.

so i’ll get mad and start obsessing over this dude who stole my film. i’ll cut out clippings of his success at every turn and tack them to a big pink corkboard. i’ll stay up late under pink lights, mapping out various dostoevskyesque methods of retribution. i’ll finally decide that the only way to wreak proper public revenge will be to do a series of portraits of a priapismatic version of him in millions of shades of pink. so i do it, throwing myself fully into the work and end up producing a crazy, vibrant, original, disturbingly evocative and mockative genre of painting stylie.

the series of paintings is wildly successful and dwarfs even the shady director’s success and with my massive noteriety i then tell the real story to the world and everyone believes me. i make a film out of that story. hire steve buscemi to play this erratic version of me—just for the pinkness of the whole thing.

so today is the day of the root canal that i hope will end this immediate crisis, which is a toothache that recedes and flares up at will and to such a degree that my life gets hijacked over it. of course, that is not really the issue. the issue is the broken teeth and the decay, and the pain is just the body saying GET THE FUCK WITH IT, KID. i still am amazed that to keep your teeth as whole as possible you need to pay about two thousand dollars for a tooth needing root canal and crown. but they’ll yank it for $100 or so. as if whole teeth are a luxury, as if chewing doesn’t become very hard when your teeth aren’t meeting up and healthy, as if you dont feel like something ugly and shameful when your smile begins to fall apart. but some of us can’t even afford the preventative work very often, or regularly. that’s why the poor people have gaps in their mouths so often. that’s why rich people can have such pretty smiles. i hate their pretty smiles like diamond lights winking down on the toothless and toothachey and toothwanting. i hate it like i hate all the gaps that stand between the hardships of the poor and the well-padded pantries of the well-to-do. i wanna be the santadontist for poor people; i’ll come round at dawn and hand out pictures of myself pulling rich people’s expensive dental work apart in the middle of the night. if we can’t bridge the gap one way, we can do it another…

it’s always a bit intriguing to me…sad but not in a way where i pity. it’s a desperate understanding i have for these people. it’s a horrible ache to uncurl the fingers, even if i’ve never touched them, watch them, drop them, on their way to the sun. those people you meet who burn with such a windwhipped flame, blown skyward by indignation or a festering fury or an inseparable sadness that they shoot inexorably on an arc aimed perfectly toward their own destruction. their lives are upended, spiraling, fractured, always darkening and utterly gothic tales of wreck and ruin. the friction and conflict they meet on their jagged way seems to soothe their overheated souls and they only respond to each incident with a deeper lean forward.

somewhere early they were stamped or carved or branded by the hand of fate. it was not light upon them in leaving directions home.

it’s kind of weird. i find the absence of odis a little strange. offputting. unsettling. he was my first contact and friend in this joint. i mentioned him here, where i first moved in.

i came out of my apartment the other day to hear him talking with m—-, taking the last of his stuff out. couldn’t believe it. he’s been here six years. been here since the first day i moved in, i know that. always been cool. always ready with an extra cerveza, always willing to chill. came and went at some funny hours, but i don’t care about that.

i walk past his window feeling a bit strange now. i try not to look up. it’s just a little too empty, too silent there.

Odis talkin' about the flowers he planted over a year ago.

he planted a few bulbs under the soil, i’ve taken fotos of these flowers before last year or so.

i took this foto on the left just a week or two ago.

his story? odis came to eugene a number of years ago. recruited by nike, which essentially owns the town. he was an olympic athlete. this was the year, i guess or so the story is told, that the USSR swept the olympics aided by early use of steroids. nike didn’t want the big loss to reflect on them and their stock of athletes so they…dumped them all.

you almost felt meeting odis there had to be some kind of story behind his being here…not to be smallminded about it, but this area is…not particularly “diverse.” i mean…it is, actually. there are plenty of mexican enclaves, and native/indian communities and even reservations. but the area is hella segregated. and since i don’t live in the poorest part of town, around me are mostly white folks who really are convinced that wearing hemp, eating all organic food, and buying veggies at an outdoor market means they are fully enlightened. i don’t mean to be cruel. but race here is buried. and i guess that’s why living next to a black fella and an asian cat on the other side sort of helped me feel…buffered!

odis is a bit of a  gambler. he always seemed to be able to make it work. lately, as the signs come up in store to store announcing price raise or vacancy, we’re all learning our money doesn’t go as far anymore. maybe he missed a bet, or couldn’t recoup in time. for the first time in six years. or maybe our landlady decided she was tired of odd hours, late comings and goings, blonde women in a truck with Odis, who stands out in this neighborhood as it is. i loved looking out the window and seeing him and his little rowdy clusters of friends at night, idling, waiting to take off somewhere into the evening. maybe that bothers some…i like to feel there is life around me….

from what i hear he was late on rent and the landlady gave him “til monday” to work it out. he packed up and left. dont know if he’s still workin down the road at the gas station, i’ll have to drop by and see.

six years! not even a full month late. that’s all you get in this world, i guess, even if you pay rent on a place for six years. nothing to show at the end of it except some free newspapers that pile up in front of your door. memories of vegas, and being an olympic competitor.

i don’t mean to get overlydramatic. it’s not like he died. it’s not like we were close friends, but i felt comfortable with him living next to me, as i said. we let things be. we knew how to live nearby someone. the rest of the complex is nearly strangers. everyone keeps to themselves. nobody else starts conversation, most don’t look at you.

ah well. i know this post is jumbled. not sure its even warranted. i can probably find odis hangin around A—–’a, playin the machines, you know.

and yet. i feel his leaving here is a sign of something. dont know what, tho. i guess that’s why i’m writing this.

——

UPDATE: Related. this too.

it’s the gig of course, the job blogging. that’s what got me blogging at umx again, on political issues. i really had lost almost all urge to do so and took that long break. i wanted to do more vlogs, but forgot that this demands more time than i reasonably have…at least right now. even if i stop blogging. i seem to fill that time with other creative means. ah, well. i will get to video more, when i can. i generally don’t allow my creative urges turn into iron-tinged guilt trips because that’s a self defeating cycle. creative energy wants to be unbound and be given room to return or ebb at will. anyway, yeah. it’s not as if blogging for work reminded me of what i was missing or anything. it’s that i was getting frustrated that my voice was so edited. and rather than let this feeling interfere with work, I figured i’d remind myself i could vent, that i had a place to say it however i wanted to say it. no need to feel like my weekly paid gig was the place i had to get everything out. and even now, i wouldn’t say “blogging again.” i don’t even think it will last. either way, i’m keeping it open and easy.

i may travel this weekend to portland to shoot an event. and i may travel to portland next weekend to shoot another event. and i hope i land a few gigs i’m bidding on because my expenses go up a little this month. and i’m trying to save up for a couple things that are pretty important.

it occurred to me the other day all of a sudden that there are like three women i see regularly in my travels/errands that normally would be in the “asking out” zone. as in, i’ve seen them enough times and had friendly conversations and positive response that it wouldn’t feel outlandish to ask, and further, a healthy male in my position would probably do so. i haven’t…and i haven’t been angsty about it or anything. it’s not that i think i’d be rejected. it’s not that i care so much about that. after all, what i’m thinking of when i say this is not sexual. or even romantic. i guess i just miss the company i used to always have when i was married, living together and such. i’ve gone past the howling loneliness that pervaded the joint most of last winter. i’ve made it out the other side. i’m glad, i’m proud, that was the point, it needed to happen. and yet, i still don’t want to get romantic with anyone.

thing is, i know despite how i might try and word it, there’s just no asking a woman to hang out casually without the idea that there is an endgame. if i asked any one of them, they wouldn’t take it that way. and since that would be the case, i know that even if one said yes, i’d be disappointed. i’m not looking to start all that up. and yet there’s really no way to ask a woman to hang out and watch a film or play video games and not have it sound like a pick up line. it would be in the back of her mind. the anticipation, good or bad, it would color everything. who am i kidding. it would probably be in the back of my mind, too.

anyway, i don’t ask. and it’s okay. for now.

she is very happy and she is a very smart person ive seen that since she was small. lately she’s taken to really embodying the independence i’ve always tried so hard to instill into my girls. i know how important that will be in a world or culture where men will be forever telling them who they are and how they can do things. as a parent always hard but important to remember not to take things personally, especially when they are things you want them to learn. so of course i take it in stride when she pushes me away or wants to do everything herself. usually i’m very proud of her. sometimes i laugh, like when she wants to fast-forward the movies herself. it used to be “scary part, scary part!” in moments that were too intense, like in A Bug’s Life and the grasshoppers crash through the ceiling and intimidate the ants. or in Spirited Away when Yubaba grows huge and wraps that hand around Sen’s neck and i would know to ffwd that part but now she figures why ask papi to do it and she wants the remote and says “fasforward mySELF” so i let her. of course sometimes she doesnt understand how specifically you have to aim it so she’ll fastforward most of the movie and be sitting there wailing “pushplay pushplay!” as she hammers on the buttons to make it stop. in most pictures she has a distant dreamy look because she tolerates the camera that papi always has but for the most part, doesn’t care for it aimed at her, being a sensitive person. that’s the look you see here, tho it works well for many pictures as “caught thinking deeply” it’s really a look where she’s trying to ignore the lens. she’s as beautiful as the mountains and the sky.

and i’m mourning the loss of so much hair, after three years i’ve shaved it. it was longer (and heavier) than its ever been and i had to grow it out again finally because it was long when i was a child and it feels very comforting to have long hair. and i flirted with growing it long again for about 20 years, but always backed off when it got to that difficult stage that hair as thick and wavy as mine gets to when it begins getting longer. so i loved that i did it finally, and i did love how warm it kept me in winter. but it is extremely a hassle in warm weather and i did want a change because now that i’ve proven to myself i can grow it long again it was beginning to feel very cumbersome. plus the long white hairs are fun but i’m not quite ready to be a wizard (tho before long i will be) and suddenly i’m wondering if i should have just cut it to my ears or something, my shoulders. i just cut off three years of time. wow. i could have gone backward just a year or two at once. but i had to have the drama of the clippers, didn’t i? yeah. you know i did.

i do still love the look of a queue, or modifications thereof, but what i forget each time is how much work they are to maintain. to sleep on. to keep neat. i could investigate a local place and see how much they would charge to maintain it. shave, braid, etc. but i’d rather spend my time on writing, art, video, or music than on my hair, to tell you the truth. eh. i may just shave it entirely and begin growing it again.

my first thoughts were of going back to the big loose curls stage. something ive not yet done for more than a day. well. dunno, maybe. i got messed up when i first shaved my head because i loved it so much. and then you know, i love hair, too. so i’m always going back and forth and actually i guess i’m bored of doing things with my hair in a way. maybe i’ll just shave the whole thing for a while. whatever. when your hairstyle is your most pressing concern, your life is pretty damn groovy. and i’ll be the first to admit that i’ve got much bigger problems in front of me than what to do with my hair. can i blame the fixation on the 70s? why not.