POSTHUMOUS

beyond the grave like lazarus

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changes are going down
muddywatersss






THE CHANGES ARE A GOING TO COME, THEY"RE COMING DOWN, but it's just about your life and nothing else, because I'm a moving out of the old Parents abode, and my Parents are finally moving back to that beloved state of Texas, that heaven on earth, with green pastures of plenty and dust and red state maniacs, and such, but they do have those beautiful and bountiful wild flowers and gusts of wind down the great plains that might knock your house down, but that means some changes for little old me.  That means I'm moving out of the proverbial basement and onto some green pastures of my own.  It's not like I haven't lived on my own before, but this time there is that sense of permanence in that change to my life and sorry style, you catch my drift, as my words drift to no one in particular maybe a few folks out there but mostly just the sound of silence and electrical currents, but expression is a beautiful thing and on I go.  I mean this time I got to pay my own way, and my Grandmother ain't helping me out, god rest her soul, and I got to stand up on my own two feet like everybody else in this world and stop being that sorry ass, if you don't mind my french.  I mean I do alright, just living out the days, ingesting fumes at the worldport, not doing no harm to nobody, which is a lot in these violent days, but I still got that American thing up inside of me, that southern man thing that comes out at fellow employees, like this African dude that I got into it with a couple of days ago, I think it's that stress of working all the time and working to death and unfulfilled and all these changes that are a coming down.  But I was trying to get out of there and go home and throwing all those bags on the ground( I mean your bags on the ground I presume) and he took offense to that which he should, and I took redneck on him and told him to come get some, and in my Southern masculine ways, but also in that bi polar genteel ways of this pseudo homeland I apologized after the occurence with a handshake, and in his smattering accent, "you have to worry about the passenger, they can see you." and to this I was embarrassed, but when part of your blood is boiling(the other part being midwest corn fed in my obesseion with identity that has no meaning more on that later) from part of your southern american identity.  What are you going to do? and you are a frustrated malcontent orator of your own thought and ego.  What are you going to do? but shake hands and go about your business of these life changes and such and see what's coming down the pipe next.
       I don't mind change I really don't.  I've moved around a bit, and envision myself some sort of Gypsy implanted from the father because he was in the military, but the other part of me doesn't care to much for moving either, that part of me that is tied to the land(romantic identity bullshit, excuse my french again), and those regions of this country and those places where I've lived.  When I was a kid, a young man it always shook me up and I usally got into fights before I moved somewhere else like one time I tried to beat up one of my friends when I lived up in Ohio, and it actually was in a Barn with bat crap and hay, and he were playing some game and I was moving the next day, and I took to scraping and took to punch him, but then felt bad and before I left went to his house and apologized, is there a pattern, maybe so, but who gives a damn right, just got to sort it out in my own head and cuss so more, you know, because I wasn't raised that way you know.  But maybe it's just that violent American nature by birthright,  born from the frontier, to die in starvation in modern fucked up America of freedom and madness, and cursed till the end of it's days, but it's not too bad I guess, there still some of that good Lincoln American out there somewhere I guess(more romantic bs, french so on), but anyways enough of all that, not to get all deep into something I got no clue about.  I don't know where I've been or who I am, but I'm on my way anyways, so who cares right.  
     I've been packing up my stuff for that move, to that apartment that's all of fifteen minutes away, oh my gosh.  But I've been going through those life memoires in this rhetoric essay about the self and the ego of me and mine, and going through those boxes stacked up with enough dust and mold from that dank basement, to kill me and a couple of other fellows as well, going through those childhood toys and old homework and papers or what's left of them, and those dank mutilated books stained from fire, from those former beliefs of dark French poetry which you still subscribe but maybe not quite as fervently as you once did before in your older age, with you Adult mutilated Self still attached to those baseball cards and comic book heroes, like your younger Brother with a kid, still obsessed with those Legos and him and that kid now three years old and a terror of the terrible threes and twos, sitting on the floor together and putting those Legos together, like two big kids obessessing over those Legos.  I'm not sure if it's that Modern Male that can't grow into that Adult male, or maybe it's just everybody always looks back
at those childhood years with bliss, or maybe it's just that people from that middle class upbringing just look back at those years, or are able to, but I'm not sure about any of that, to get off that side track once again.
      But my Mom came back from Texas that state of heaven and wild flowers and dust, and she came back to get that house in the subdivision in that Georgia woods ready to sell and she is attempting to pack all the junk that has been collecting for 20 odd years in a couple of odd weeks and I think she's crazy for doing it, but that's just how my parent's do things, not like me and my slow moving ways.  But my Dad is now working in San Antonio and he's working for the city government in Computers and he's not that old college student anymore, forever living off Student Loans.  He's come Full Circle from harassing college students and professors to get in gear, to harassing goverment office workers to get in gear, and turned my old life upside down, but it's good for me, but I just wish I wasn't so damn tired all the time and worn down from the grind and rat race out on highways and in the skies, to use my French once more, in this profanity laced oratory in showing this crooked damned life.  I'm always thinking about who we were before and if you are that person in those photos, from middle class family trips and with your cousins and at friends birthday parties? Who is that person in those photos? Is he the same person that exists now? Or is it someone else. To these questions I answer I got no idea on that one.  I guess that's what moving does to you.  It makes you recant on what happened before in that life.  I think it's hard to make sense of it because it's like trying to nail a dot on a moving frame, or maybe a box that just won't stop moving and is only gathering dust and mold and all that junk.  But who the hell knows(french), I'm just along for the ride, on that journey with no end, on that journey to the blackness, across the great divide on that River Styx, to see what happens, or maybe that's just some more of utter bs, and some french, but whose to tell, onwards I say through this essay with no end.
      And then I moved out.  In a flurry and in a flash and in a rush.  How much bad writing can you take? Hard to tell but let's find out.  But I had all my stuff piled up in that dank basement.  Boxed up and taped up in my anal old age and anxiety where I like everything in order now, but to be honest I didn't have anything but cursed books.  Heavy as can be.  And as I argued with my Mom with my frustrations and blame on her because I got to finally grow up, but it is what it is.  But I had some help.  Our next door neighbors, our family friends, for going on sixteen years that we counted, but one of their daughters husbands which I used to know to make it even more confusing, came over to help.  And to make it even more strange, we used to be friends when I was in middle school and he lived in our subdivion way back in the day when he was just that Hispanic kid from New Mexico just moving out to the sticks and the edge of the ciy, and when we were playing basketball in our driveway and remembering when my more popular and preppy friends were making fun of him in that same basement, as Jimmy from New Mexico(will call him that) was acting like Beavis and Butthead on my flip out Sports Illustrated football phone(oh ya way back, no spring chicken here, got to get a subscription for that one) "Ah your wife just called, she's dead dude.  Huh ha. Huh ha. Huh ha." as those preppy friends laughed at him and called him wetback behind his back, but they were just those southern middle class kids just being kids, and Jimmy with his gold Catholic cross on his neck and dark black hair going down his neck, and his wild ass brother with buck teeth and more chunkier from skinny Jimmy with the monotone voice, who was wilder and erractic and ending up going to prison and fighting my small blonde brother in the driveway and me throwing with off and then remembering silent Jimmy with the cross walking back to his house in those subdivision memories way back in the day. But now there was Jimmy with the cross around his neck walking in that subdivision again, a little bit chubbier like his brother used to be, and with a beard like a Catholic Priest with a thick neck because he likes to lift weights now, "like the meathead gyms, those are the ones that I like" he says later, but now we've met up again, after he married that family friend's daughter, and maybe he got the last laugh because now that wetback Jimmy(facetious) with the gold cross just graduated from Harvard with a master's degree in Divinity and Philosophy and all that, and they have a baby on the way, with those family friends who are Religious and Republican and from the Sixties, defying those cultures wars with some complexity in which we are now embroiled, because they are those moderates, in this extremist times, who are open to Jimmy the Wetback(facetious) with that gold chain and from a messed up divorce, from working at McDonalds to being accepted into Harvard and into this Republican Christian family, that say Grace before meals as they hold hands, and don't watch TV that much, but such is how life really is, in this mixed up world of ours on that edge of cities, but as Jimmy with the Beard like a Catholic Priest with a meathead neck, comes walking through the cul-de-sac to the UHAUL I had rented earlier and back in front of our basement in this subdivision of memories of friend of youth with different faces and birthday parties in middle school, and fishing in subdivision ponds, and mountain biking on railroad tracks, and messed up things in my life, and pain and delving into the shadows and blood of the mind, in that basement of drunken poetry and drugs, and brother flunking out of school and fires in that stained southern woods with plastic subdivisions moving to plastic apartments, and there is Jimmy walking up to that UHAUL looking like a Catholic Priest and not some skinny New Mexican kid with a cross around his neck moving slow like a bear and talking slow like he always did.
         I had already begun the fumigation as I wore a mask on my face becaues I'm highly allergic
to dust and mold which I just found out from my anxious emergency room and blood testing, as you see non reader what I've been going through lately from all this change going down.  It has all come Full Circle, as I leave the dank basement for another plastic apartment in the humid woods of Georgia and cursed flags, and edged out metro areas with shopping malls and different colors and faces, as Jimmy with the Gold Chain grabs some boxes, and we make small awkward small talk through the sweat of my mask and dust from the boxes and memories, and since him and his wife, my family religious friend, just moved back to Boston to live with her Parents, and they have a baby so he needs some money and my mom is paying him, because even though he graduated Harvard in Divinity that just don't guarantee employment in this here country or anywhere really, but it looks like Jimmy with the Gold Chain is an expert packer of UHAUL trucks from all that moving from Boston back down here saying, "If we put all the boxes against the wall, I think we can fit everything." and me not really saying anything, just nodding my head with my mask on in the burning humid heat, as I'm ready to go, and just moving anything and everything as I move all the things I have in this world in my possession, and not having much or wanting much in my Zen of packing philosophy of moving light and nothing, to move and to travel with with no heavy things, except those tons of boxes of heavy ass books that might kill you and Jimmy with the Gold Chain to move them because I have packed them in Giant Home Depot boxes like an idiot that weight damn(french) near a ton, and moving these heavy ass boxes, in this damned(french two times) Georgia Heat, might kill old JImmy if were not careful and all that diploma from Harvard in Divinity won't matter two shits now will it if you die in the Georgia Heat loading boxes now will it(as that profane oratory just gets worse now).  
     As we stammer and move boxes and try to make small conversation, because we haven't seen each other that often really since those subdivision memories of back in the day, acutally we hadnt seen each other until Thanksgiving last year or so, we met for the first time since we were kids, since playing basketball in the driveway and he walked away in the dark after I tossed his brother who just got out of jail, and they're he was as I offered him a Coke, and Jimmy saying he doesn't drink those anymore, and he'll just have some water that is lukewarm as we shrug our shoulders at each other, and I agree because we are both on that weight loss thing,  and both trying to exercise and eat right because we gained some weight since those youthful days the both of us, him doing more the lifting weights meathead thing, and me more with my mountain bike, trying to still be a kid and the youth that I can't quite escape from, as I pour him some of that luke warm water, as my crazed mother going circles trying to get her junk out at the same time I'm trying to find mine stirs us in the right directions to pick up the right boxes, and seperate the junk from the old family furniture from when people lived and died right in the same damn(again) house and furniture lasted till when they died and beyond and not that plastic junk that I buy because of it being light and that busts apart the minute you try to move it into that UHAUL, which did happen to me by the way, but I just dont' want that solid wood buty only boxes of books to kill and torture me please that's all and just accumulated trash and other junk for me please, and those books that torture me and plague me and look at me and weigh me down, and can't give them away to Goodwill for the life of me and get away from them, and wishing they were all ebooks, or in the garbage, but all those voices, all those burned blood books of ribald french poetry looking back at me, putting that curse on me, and Jimmy saying he brought a ton of books back from him from Harvard, and me thinking I bet he did, and Jimmy saying he had to get his friend(not a paid friend of loneliness and memories oh Jimmy of the Gold Chain) to help them move down twisting flights of stairs in that dense snow of Boston and Cambridge, in those old Bostonian Squares in that Northern City of trains and junk, not up those stucco cement stairs in plastic apartments, of wooden glades on spring creek names, in highway Hell in this Bible Sun Belt city, as we got in that UHAUL truck and we were on our way 15 minutes due south, for that big move, away, away all the way down, but closer to the airport and the job, and the city, and the plastic mall, in urban manifestations, this wetback(facetious) Harvard grad of gold chains and dark hair down with me driving through these woods as we talked, and went past farm houses and fields, and new Grocery Stores and we drove those 15 minutes to those plastic apartments on Spring Creek Ways and on highways of Hell on Shopping Centers and old Main Streets and railroad tracks and churches and tortous things of flags done gone by.
      But if felt good to talk about some intellectual junk with a like minded individual, to be understood with an open mind and open heart on that UHAUL ride on strange highways in this edged out city with everything is strange and dynamic now more than what it used to be or that is what it seems to me from seaching on Facebook I guess.  As I drove feeling like an old out of touch Truck Driver in that UHAUL, partaking in notions of Malcolm Gladwell in a Big Fish in a little pond obsessions with schools and how it was at that big school up in the snow and my own notions of getting outside that western civilization towards eastern things, even though I talked about Latin Literature and how I was into that right then, but being able to say something about it and communicate, as you were sweating and feeling weird and out of touch like some kind of out of body experience as you drove tied up in that move as your world seemed to kind of lean in a way, in sorrow and in surprise as you drove in that UHAUL and talked notions through exurbs and farms and toward that apartment with a gate you can't seem to figure out, that gate so they can keep out or keep in the criminals and the crazies(especially since I'm moving in) but I've never really been in a gated place before with Californian swimming pools next to you as you park that UHUAL in front of your building with its trimmed grass and trees and start to unload all those damned(french) books with old Jimmy of subdivisions and change with you with his beard and not his skinny self anymore, and your out of place west texas mother saying hello to every third person about how her too old son is moving in and right next door to this not really caring city attitude people on the edge of this city who are like whatever, those working class black women working at the Waffle House, and crew cut national guard soldiers going out for a night on town, and a Hispanic dude with his young son teaching him how to ride a bike, a blond Californian girl coming back from that Californian plastic pool, as me and Jimmy of the Gold Chain bring up those million pounds of tortous books up those stucco cement stairs of loneliness in the city, in that burning heat, sweating and dying out there in the Georgia Sun, to move your sorry life forward.  to another precipice.  and the stress of all that, those things that are normal for everybody else, but not normal to you, you the dank basement dweller, going out into the fresh plastic air, to see how it feels.  to a new world were maybe people are not so friendly, out of the confines of the old woods and good old boy high schools of days and confused days, to those immigrants working at the Chipotles, not giving a damn, just get your burrito and get the hell type of days, but just working for a better life, but faster maybe, getting lost in commuciation at the Mall, on the edge, along Highways of Hell and Byways.  stuck in traffic.  in a million out cars.  going and moving. and seeing. cultures shrouded in silver.  and still there.  but where it is I'm not sure.  at the Crackle Barrel along the Highway.  at the Walmart.  people just living in a blur.  out their lives.  living. moving.  demographics.  herd. you chaning to another local in a plastic Californian place.  of land and dreams and nightmares and violence. in underspoken tones.  always there. but not there.  as you drink cold ice water with Jimmy from the here as he texts his new wife and you argue with your girlfriend of planes and texts and not there but there.  over the phone. of Carribean food and another family to feed you and go to that airport and feel the sadness of moving over time zones and never be but in wisps of voices, and your inability to grow and to accept it as it is, can't do it, be a man but still living like that kid, obessed with Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles or something, and not accepting that death, can't do it, can't be a man, a something, a suburban grub, running in still motion, that you can't get past, some mad dream, that holds you back, like some cowboy on the range, get to come on home, come off them rails, take off your boots and stay a while, get a house, and a car, a white picket fence and live a little bit just like everybody else, like JImmy of the Gold Chain from Divinity School at Harvard, wanting to grow up and be that Catholic Priest or that teacher or some kind of Cornel West, as we go out to eat after its all done, and we moved all those tortured boxes of sweat in the Georgia heat, and go to a Sports Bar as you talk about Mexico with your west texas mother in that sports bar, at the mall, talking of ruins and wanting to go there and ancient cultures in these plastic elusive places, feeling somewhat elusive still, feeling out of it, as you sleep over at your Parents old house after you go back to drop of that UHAUL truck exhausted from the heat, and Jimmy of the Gold Chain walks back to that family friends house, like it was back in that youth, but were different people now as he walks back silent like a New Mexican Indian Priest with his beard just like that night when I tossed his buck tooth brother after playing basketball, walking away, can't really see back then anymore in those subdivision memories of ghosts, too elusive, and then you wake up tired and mad and not knowing who you are, and wanting to fight because your moving again, and you get angry at your Mom for no reason, and your mad at the world in which you live and created for yourself, wanting to flee into loneliness like you used to do, with that car loaded up, like you thought you were in some kind of movie, but it ain't really like that, because your just getting older, and maybe its a movie that you can't quite pin point, that you thought you were living but you weren't, and you can't remember it because it's gone and it's on the move, like those subdivision memories.
      And maybe you drive those 15 minutes down that country exurban road, and maybe a song comes on the radio.  Nowhere man are you listening.  Nowhere man. and sometimes it happens like that, that a song come on the radio and it just hits you at the proper time and in that proper moment.  And it was like that.  Going to nowhere.  You are nowhere inside.  And you want to be proper.  In a proper place, and normal but maybe that's just a pipe dream, because there are decisions made and things that happen and you got to accept them in the loneliness of this modern life, driving on the commute by yourself with echoes of highways in your ears, and echoes of the past with subdivision ears.  elusive ears with stained hearts.  and dankness in basements and now in plastic garden villas with swimming pools like dried up sun cow, plastered and parised to nowhere except this life and in between thigns, and below them.  catering to yourself, in lonely apartments, with people coming and going, and ground up like coffee with lung disease, but it's all for fun and kicks right, a kick in the pants, of youthful memories and Jimmy of the Gold Chain drinking luke warm water with your frustrations to kick around a while, and all those anxieties of money and worries that pile up, to let go, and see what happens, because you ain't in Kansas no more son, but maybe you are, because it's just 15 damned minutes down the road, excuse my ribald french.  
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