Hunting the Garden
Call the police, there's a mad man around
Running down underground to a dive bar
In a West End town ….
My place is designed with an obscure flow of air.
Not by me, nothing to do with interior decoration or furniture placement. This is more of an infrastructure thing. Built as a Zen practitioners worst nightmare: doorways looking into each other. Exits of the home lining perfectly with entrances.
I believe this is anti zen? maybe it’s Zen?
Nonetheless, my place is designed like this: With an unusual flow of air. A draft from the balcony door cause groans in the hinges of the front door. If both opened at the same time, the front door slams as if grabbed by invisible hand. The breeze is ruthless here, the maze of wind a powerhouse.
I lay less than 3ft from the far left side of my bed. This angle, body placement, gives me a perfect view through three doorways until finally my eyes rest on the backgrounded skyline. The romantic view is great except only one person can experience it. Always me.
Women sleep on the wall side. Away from the door. Just as she walks on the shop side of the street, not the road side. Man always walks and sleeps between the fairer sex and the entrance way of danger. Except in restaurant he sits facing the door. So he can see danger coming in. Protecting living > Protected sex. Make her feel alive and safe. She wants your babies.
Fortunately my self defined chivalry pays off here. Since I get the view.
After night with lady, after she’s left, after the chaos of a two charged bodies finally simmers and the world is still for a few hours, this view gives me temptation to stay in bed. I will lay here. Quietly. No music. No cell phone. No laptop. No book. Much like Camus’s Meursault I will sit here and smoke cigarettes while the disappointed monologue trapped between my ears battles over the Unholy acts I sunk teeth into. No real agenda. No real rush to start the day, especially since the days have been ending at 5am constantly. This make me a morning person?
Sometime in early April I lay in bed doing just this. Parliament’s on fire and a mind cloudier then the room. I look at the skyline. Winter is breaking and it doesn’t as look cold out there as last week. Watching the Flag atop the surpassingly-classically-architectured centerfold of the city. It waves forth, whips back. The building flashes the time of day and the temperature. 12:42, 59degrees.
Middle of the week. I believe a Wednesday or Thursday. Can’t remember for sure. I’m trying to remember when the last time I knew what day it was. A meeting or call that happened early in the week. I remember Monday. I remember what I had for dinner Monday Night. I know I haven’t had my usual Friday call. I’m back where I started. Once again find myself searching the torso of the week. I’m nearing a breakthrough and flirting with that orgasmic feeling of -remembering- -piecing together the dots- when my hunt for answers is interrupted by a reflective glint on the sprinkler near the door way.
I removed the fire alarm batteries long ago. So I don’t think about them much. But late at night the shadows from the two sprinklers give me eerie feeling of being overrun by bugs. From the periphery the shadows look like Lovecraftian designed neobeings. Mutants of much horror. I never experienced bugs in the house in california. But the warm east coast weather brings about sights and sounds, creatures that those in the west would find unbearable.
A friend in LA mentioned she went to Florida for few weeks and nearly lost her mind at how loud the bugs were at night. Hollering from their wilderness. They party and don’t turn the music down for anybody.
Since I’m already on a bad footing with the sprinklers and their inability to not look like an army formed of spiders, cockroaches, earwigs, I’m immediately drawn to the reflective glint.
Ash cigarette. Eyes locked, eyelids flirting, refusing to take my vision off the spot of the shimmer. Afraid if I do it will vanish into the ether. Out of bed now. The angle of my body + the sunlight + the object are all moved so I can no longer see the shine. But I know where to explore.
I reach up to the sprinkler, stretched so my fingertips can search around the contraption. Sight is hopeless since my head is so far underneath. I refuse to stand on a chair like a faggot to do this. I’m stretched to my bodies full length. Hoping my fingers land on something to make this shimmer make sense. Balance slips and I begin to decompress back down to the ground right as my hand grabs onto with what feels like glass. It’s smooth and microscopic. Can’t be bigger than the top of a thumbtack. Almost as glossy in touch too.
I quiet the impulse to yank on it. Maybe this sets off the water? Resulting in flooding of my place?
I abandon the faggot belief and grab a chair. The mystery is too intense to worry about such things.
Having sight. Being close enough to breath on the speaker. I latch to the glassy feeling -thing- and slowly pull it outwards towards me. The first pull catches. Like the string, wire, cord, whatever it’s attached to, has ran out of allowance. I lean into it and see that it’s the front of a lens. The kind you put into a teddy bear to spy on your nannys interaction with your kids. Cord still attached and no wires cut.
Immediately a thousand things run through my head.
Is this a property managers voyeur kink casting me as a main character? Is this the feds worried about my text to a friend implying the importation of 2,000 cartridges of _ _ _ _ _ _ _ ?
Possibly the last.
I remember my comrade explaining uneasy experience he had too.
Coming out of grocery store around dusk last week he got he feeling of being watched. That sixth sense criminals, the good ones, have built into their nervous system. Beginning in the spine and tingling upwards until it hits your brain: Someone is watching me. A 2014 Chevy Malibu, black, had a man sitting behind the steering wheel, eyes hidden by sunglasses and window cracked 3 inches. Just enough to let the stench of a stakeout escape. Getting into his car he pulls away and watches the Malibu do the same. The other driver is smart. Not a rookie. Not new to this. He keeps enough distance, and a decoy, between his target. Fortunately we’re trained to detect this. My friend realizes the tail and keeps his speed normal. As to not raise alarm (the same reason I didn’t sever the cameras cord). We must appear innocent. After taking 3 left turns as a final measure of the authenticity of this tail; my friend’s convinced. He gets on the highway at high tide and weaves, abruptly, through the 4 lanes like spider on cocaine. He timed it as to be in the far right lane when a small, into-the-urban jungle exit, popped up. Hoping off the interstates he speeds towards the parking garage we agreed on in instances like this.
This is when I got his call. He was okay. Safely away. He wanted, needed, to let me know how Hot things were getting.
Since this tail was only 5 days ago, it’s fresh on my mind and a dangerous coincidence when put beside the now discovered camera.
I think on this. Everything I need is in a duffle bag in the closet but is this premature? Is it time yet to abandon the city, this headquarters? My paranoia has sometimes caused me to act too quickly. Putting a wrench into our more wide spread, global plans.
*BANG BANG*
My hesitation is interrupted. The walls shake from the doors abuse. My head snaps in that direction.
*BANG BANG*
I grab my bag. Toss it onto my shoulder.
“OPEN UP”
I check the peephole. Pitch black. Someone’s covering it.
*BANG BANG*
Fight or Flight. I elect to escape. If I go down in burning glory of bullets right now the project will never be finished. If I make it to the Garden there’s still a chance of using the cartridges of _ _ _ _ _ _ for _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _.
From the balcony I hear wood breaking. The door is being kicked down and splinters are splattering the walls. Foreshadows of my blood doing the same cross my mind. I look down. 16ft from the ground. I only know because I measured the first day I moved here. I wouldn’t have bought the place if it was any higher. But from this distance I can safely survive and jump. Luckily, a neighbor parked his Wrangler close enough to land on. 11ft now. Childs plays.
Voices getting louder and doorknobs being wrestled. I look back once more before jumping. The plan will go on. Safe landing. Safe starting up of my car. No bombs triggered by the ignition. Speeding away from the city I call my friend, “Things aren’t good. My spot is full of feds, local police, east coast cartel or all of the above. Meet me at the Garden”
I’ve missed you. Yes! From the bottom of my heart. Many weird things happening, strange occurrences only explainable by a cosmic tear in our galaxy releasing freak gas that turns Man and Woman to wild beast hollering.
Update on etc’s:
On patreon: Paused for April/May.
Combing $$ and patreon content gave me grimy feeling. Unlike other accounts who I admire - grimhood/fitz/rocky etc. who are offering you practical knowledge on something (biologically in depth health, body optimization and Fizeek, diet and food respectively) I am not. I use words and this medium as an exorcism of thought and in more of a ‘storytelling’ manner. I value fiction coated Harsh Truths and the hyperbolization of Life.
For this reason, it seems that attaching $$ to my ‘Art’ (atleast the only form of creation that brings about a genuine Alive-ness in me) wasn’t Holy.
So I’ve paused it for this month but am leaving it up as a way of support. (For frens that want to send $5, $10 a month, or support in another manner)
We make deal, yes?
I write for free. You read. Donate a fiver through patreon if you really feel something. Don’t if you don’t. Don’t if you don’t have the extra coin. NO LOVE LOST. But when I release my book (not like The Aesthetic Archetypes, of which I look back in almost disgust…) you support. Only physical copies. Not releasing for another couple seasons so put away .50 cent a week until then!
DEAL?!
On publication, local newspaper:
Decided I don’t give a hoots ass about my city. Decided I’m not putting precious time into pumping the belly of the beast with my energy. But, I have the blueprints for you if you’re interested in making your city more lively for our generation. Content structure, needed overhead, guerrilla advertising, digital + physical influences, etc. Simply reach out. Maybe you can do this, make a course on it, and teach others across the country how to make their own (after yours sees success). But unfortunately for my city, I’ve given up on it. I don’t see myself here past 2years. Making it hard to feel passionate with that direction and line of work. I wouldn’t give Fauci CPR. Let fools flop around in their own silly distractions.
On Twitter:
Simply too easily influenced to be on there right now. Quietening input in hopes of unearthing deep PERSONAL beliefs. Reaching my hand into my memories, experiences hoping to find honest, partly-covered truths that are raw to the Human experience. I believe brother Lobo said life is about addition: add on things, taste new flavors, try new things, experience experience experience. Until it switches. Then comes the days of subtraction. Getting rid of the noise. Taking away the things that don’t aid you in your journey. Twitter (as an ecosystem) is falling into the second category.
Many lessons and philosophical takes on there changed my views of the world. But for now I am mountain stream roaring quickly down ancient rock face trying to avoid picking up each and every grain of sand as I journey. On top of this I look back at ‘advice’ or ‘beliefs’ I expressed X months ago and laugh. Too fluid.
You been good?
Much love
WINSTON
SOULED IDEA
AMERICA’S 7TH MOST WANTED
