What is it with Parking Garages?

So much of the modern world consists of driving cars and running across their related paraphernalia. I ran to the top of the parking garage. The fog was thick below the apex, but the top level of the garage peaked out above it. It was as if the top of this garage was adrift in a grayish white sea of cloud. I jumped down using a grappling hook, went into the arcade and found the door. The woman on the other side said "try your best to avoid this!" and jabbed at me with a syringe. She was beautiful. I was deft but stuck with the needle nevertheless.

Blue

Leaning against a dome carved rock a French veteran stared ahead with one eye at a bright red pole that shined back at him between the throngs of people walking through the memorial's pathways. His upper lip was a mound that curled over the usual dip, like an orange rind, exposing a nicely arranged row of white teeth. The nose was absent, the crater suspending the rind, and a custom eye-patch supported itself upon the lip's ridge with a small girder, a bird's foot perched on a ball. His navy cap read "Bordien", and although an incision's rivet bit into his eye's puncta he stared with wise intensity through the commotion; simply waiting for the initiation of some act which would be the consillatory or provocative end to his ownership of the scene before him. He stood grotesque and magnificent in a shabby oil-stained tweed jacket, the gravitational effect of wearing the Médaille militaire and Croix de guerre straightening out the patch over his left breast. If one stood directly before him he appeared like the keystone in a relief, a liminal welcomer to to the somber tended parade grounds and the dark unparallel strokes of the forest beyond. Seemingly preoccupied with his role as gatekeeper, the soldier cocked his head slightly when from behind the red pole he spotted the darkly tanned and mud spattered face of a vagrant. Immediately the two were entirely engaged with one another. The soldier looked over the vagrants face for signs of horror or disgust, either of which would satisfy his strange hunger. The vagrant upon studying the veteran's face stared back blankly with an expectant aire which circumscribed his métier. As the vagrant approached the veteran was struck by the wild stormy-wave pattern of hair, and an impasto of filth which striped the forehead's brow-lines and nose; this face was a rough churning sea. Pidgeon cooing relieved the two of their silent duel, and the connection was broke.
Below the pidgeons the vagrant settled amidst a pile of trash opposite a relief station. These streets, the avenues bustling with a happy city's retinue once lay shattered. Planks of wood, doorframes, tapering piles of mortor littered with clock springs and brick rubble; these erstwhile estaminets, cathedrals and brownstones were the clarion call of the trash in a veteran's mind. In a vagrants mind they were a boon, a source to sustain lifes condition, such as it was.

"To feel embittered by it would be like blowing on cigarette ash", someone said from the shadow of a pin-stand a little down the avenue. All ages were here, and life was seen from many angles as the defunct and young held and assayed one another in capricious spells of regard. The carnivalesque impression was made a project by young boys standing grey and infantesimal beside gleaming convoys of cavarly come home from the Verdun. To a child's untrained eye, this terror combined with the streaming tears of wives and fathers equated roughly to a vision of manhood. But there were things missing as well. Where were the clean argent bayonets, the bicorns, and triumphant faces? After all, hadn't the War been won?
Had the children asked him, had they enough courage to ask him the only question of great import, the one both his presence and his chasseur comrades' collective absence incited in young minds, he would have replied simply: "No. War is cold", and let that fester. The veteran had heard from someone that the reason why murder was immoral was because it robbed a person of his or her future. Watching these young children, he was pained by the innefectual nature of his observation-- his field of vision such that focus was easier, the periphory less significant, but this clarity of tunnel vision only increased a sense of an overarching lameness and a surging calamity. Here in the spotlight was the reverent glaring of a girl of six regarding the roundly handsome mustachioed, face of a radiating young Dragoon patrol officer, having never seen combat himself in Armiens-- a fate to which he saw assigned the men who marched in his wake: pasty white, both eyes forward, dead, capped in fetching bearskin. Later, a young boy and his obvious demimonde mother's turn at concocting demigods to the tune of forty young cavalrymen gliding atop black bicycles--toys on review! In sometimes dizzying pangs, the eyes of others and the one he had left to witness them confirmed that his physical appearance couldn't show the depth of his wounds, it needed extracting from him. But why be serious? The War was over and the solution to the riddle presented by the veteran's appearance was thus paradoxically barred to children, the only recipient for whom his scars were designed.
The forest sighed through the crowd and the veteran flipped his collar, burying his head into his chest, while keeping his eye on the red of the pole. The world expanded, like drapery then cascaded back down as the gale passed.

A wooden framework surrounded an outlet from the cave and as we opened it we were treated to a great expanse of the Afghan mountain-scape, from a high vantage. The ten-or-so marines with which we were embedded, kept talking of a large movement of personnel that scouts and UAV's had observed and radio'ed into them. Our guide, a white haired, Indian looking and sounding wise-man sat quietly between their nervous ranks intermittently conversing with his assistant, our translator, as well as a plucky, bright-faced young television journalist. A rocky, natural out ridge served as the apparent path up to this wooden facade; a deck and several log beams and broken planks that nested between them, clods of rock and wild-flowers creeping up out of their gaps gave the location a decidedly ancient-Buddhist flavor; it evoked a time before Islam. Some of the soldiers perched from the edge of the deck began firing down into the valley at several clearly deleneated figures running back and fourth. I covered my mouth as the group voted to pursue these sporadic figures down below. It was decided that we would stay behind, the translator was given an M-16 and the journalist a handgun. As they snaked their way down the path we saw flashes of light from their guns like little lightning-bugs, and their poses and shadows were etched nightmarishly on the walls around them like huge caricatures of fright. Finally we glimpsed their small battle with a tribe of Taliban at the base of the mountain. Some had already fallen, and some were falling in the skirmish now. A cloud of dust soon enveloped their fast, bug-like movements and they had disappeared. The T.V. journalist was busy behind me, and as I looked back he was bare-chested, ripping the sleeve off his white undershirt and tying it to a long strip of a wooden plank which he had broken off. Our wise-man sherpa began adjusting the red-lit dials on a short wave radio, his hands slow and patient. Suddenly we heard cries of agony, a moment later arabic dancing music, and then silence again. His face was leather, frozen in a sort of amused countenance; he was not afraid of death. The dark haired, serious looking translator snatched up the machine gun as we heard the sound of falling rocks not too far down the trail.

A long night

When the pregnant woman stood up from the milk-bath she told me that it would be easier when she went into labor to be lubricated in such a way as to ease the passing of the infant at the canal. She had been a black woman that had sat next to me as professor Richard explained 'le raison d'etre' regarding the logic behind giving Finance students several levels of calculus during their matriculation. A fart had brought my attention to her--I did not notice it being emitted, but as soon as I had smelt it we were playing footsie at each other's loins. I was then lost in the engineering building trying to find classrooms off concrete dust spilling cliffs and empty warrens.

Once I was infected with the virus the other contagious persons who, for whatever reason, had joined each other in wearing all-black, informed me that it was my duty to execute the remaining members of my squad, in a ploy designed to prove loyalty to their cause. I looked at my teeth in the mirror and at will I could change their shape to my liking. Two of them were on the second floor spa-room which overlooked my doomed ex-partners in the courtyard. A small afro sporting black child was sitting terrified as we watched the water in his large placid jacuzzi rush from clear to black--a frightful thrashing ensued, akin to observing a dying snail.

I was sent running at the invitation of (professor) Richard and his wife--I ran so fast, and at such an angle that my speed was the result of a churning motion with the toes of my feet, like climbing a ladder. I was apparently unexpected--the furrowed brow of Richard's wife being my tip-off. I tend to land in this situation often--the reticent host, and me the clueless guest. Was it my physical appearance that lent itself to this constant ridicule?

Day 1 of abe kobo Ex.

freewrite:

The long and winding road. The beginning of the end. There is something there which is no longer me when I end up talking about it in the dark; the secrets which go beyond the dark. The end of darkeness and the beginning of the light. There is a mathematical tipping point I’m sure. There is nothing wrong with the feeling that the words that I write are altogether ineffectual. They have no meaning. They have style. That’s for sure. They sure do have style. The type of style they have is not of any interest to people of this world. Perhaps that’s because I’m not writing this for people. I’m writing this for the future tthere’s al lot of people that are involved very heavily in the interstice of justie between the right and the wrong. The intertice, the mathematical judgement call where rounding errors and shaving data are forgiven because there’s a point to be driven in by the data. Data is ever so slowly marginalized in favor of a desirous conclusion.

I begin by telling of a fire which consumed the pornographic theatre in 2008. Hanging on a thread of brain matter flesh which was assaulted by hormonal imbalance, drug and alcohol abuse daily a man with a a cat fetish murdered 13 fellow depraved inmates of the human race. Earlier that night his wife had joked about the Parmesean cheese she saw on his shirt shoulders, in reference to his chronic dandruff problem. That was it. He went into the kitchen, found a silver crystal bowl holder, approached her from behind and slammed the pointy end through her head’s temple and into her brain cavity--exposing a pink viscous muck…undisturbed in laces at first--then interrupted in spurting black convulsive attacks of blood-shots.

Kobo Again

How to live a Post-political life.
Politics cannotes divisiveness and division of groups into polar spheres or polemics. In this way politics is a large scale representation of the rights of the individual up and over that of the whole of humanity. How is this defeated? Does morality provide us with a shematic for overcoming the bastion of individuality? No. Morality is fallible, and subjective. A correct morality has never and will never exist. In this sense, I agree in spirit with my predessesors including Nitzche, and wholly disagree with the philosophy espoused by Emanuel Kant and his modern counterparts. I have several proofs of this hypothesis, and though I feel it's a wasted effort I shall provide some of these proofs in the passages to follow:--

Why is this important

The Red Head

The bombadier seat of a trainer aircraft presents itself to me on a rainy day. Given tours of these wonderful machines I suppose. A man in a business suit goes up a couple of extra steps to the pilot's seat. In the bombadier cockpit there's a mini T.V. screen and two poles to direct the bombs with gentile taps to go off in different directions. Semi-smart bombs. Another little screen can be made to look out the front, through the use of tiny cameras--however, it is lit up only with a rudimentary blue and white doplar radar screen. A storm is coming.

A column of rainclouds travels up to me from the south, and I hear rumors of my friend's presence, on the automobile highway, amid the blowing grass and occasional blip of rain. His house in the mountains is beautiful and I don't want to get too attached. A redhead asks me about fliers that I'd been passing out for the military in hopes of getting drafted into the elite air-force. The China conflict is coming and there is less than a wing of F-22's. What a beautiful girl, what a beautiful storm--she asks me like the wind, "do you think it will work this time?" as she sits above me. No words.