All my things are stored in caskets in a closet and I cant get at my phone, or my pens and when I finally plug it in I get a message from Shadow saying he’s in the hospital this and a lot of irrelevant question about an art show that has already happened.
We can’t drink so we go to the bar in the hall to be on point. When she was a young Greenwich princess,Eileen trained as a dancer and was recruited by Jofferey and American Dance company if you like. One time she got into an elevator in Rockefellor center and woman rode all the way up while rudely staring at her up and down and down and up. Kathleen was afraid she was some sort of lesbian masher. But when Eileen got our of the car the woman stopped her and said “I’m Eileen.”
and She said, “I”m Eileen too.”
“Yes but I’m Eileen Ford and I run a modeling agency.”
“I’m a dancer,” she said and daddy wouldn’t let her model because it wasn’t proper. Mr. Delicious is uncertain he believes in any of this. It’s a psych ward after all. Unreliable narration is the rule but still she got a certain class about her and his job is not to question the script but to continue the improv.
Position 1 2 3 pliet.
She can’t shit.
Salt water cocktail didn’t work but still on point on the the bar and still filled with a fragile beauty. Mr. Delicious is convinced she is an actress. In fact he is convinced she is Meryl Streep. Meryl Streep in a deep method roll. The roll of a lifetime: Eileen the patient. It’s so secret they had to trap Mr. Delicious in the cuckoo bin just so he could get his first big roll acting with Meryl Streep. Everyone is in the cast and he can Recall Sophie saying Imagine all you see is happening again in another room with slightly better looking more famous people. The whole thing is an undercover Prank show in its fine art Version. A conspiracy of Doc and Dave, or Joan and Bob, or Google, or facebook, or IBM… who knows who is directing, but it is certainly true that it is Meryl Streep talking about cancer and tragedy and bowel movements and drinking a gallon of salt water to try and force shit out and brutal, violent attacks by seventies New York lone man druggie criminals and Alzheimers father And Red dye Poisonings of the spine by Kodak medical imaging dye and fortunes lost and fortunes gained and the rich little brother who has washed his hands of her and it’s sort of impossible to believe even there on the psych ward that someone could actually be hit by all this shit storm of bad luck and tragedy and still be standing…
No. It is impossible to believe this whole hotel and every story in it are real and taking place in a “REAL” world. It is easier by far to believe this is some sort of tear jerker of a movie. I laugh. Sophie’s Choice.
and she looks like Meryl and I find that I’m a much more sympathetic person when I think I am talking with Oscar Winning Meryl Streep than I am when just dealing with civilians.
They want to dismiss her to a Hotel as she has no apparent reason to be on the psych ward, but she is afraid her intestines will explode from the constipated shit in her colon and she will die in the hotel.
To transfer her to the next circle of treatment hell they want to remove a previously cancer related porta cath. So she can start a new virgin in the other crazy system. Doing this she thinks will lower her blood pressure till she bleeds out and dies.
She says that the salt cocktail will raise her blood pressure and also kill her.
At one point she says, “Go ahead. Do what you want. I’ll just die tonight and get it over with.”
“Don’t say that” I say
“baaah” she says
Later when she is calm we take another walk around the ward. She tell me that her father’s baby brother was killed by a drunk doctor after an accident. The doctor over dosed the child on anesthetic….
Years later the father encountered the doctor at a steak house…
He picked him up by the scruff and cast him to the floor like a rag doll and said in his Irish Brogue Do you be rememberin Ellis Gallagher? He was my baby brother and you killed him. And in a final act of bravery he spared the guy’s life and just walked out of the restaurant with the doctor still sitting on the floor humiliated.
Now a word from our sponsors:
The beer stein codex gets its name from a beer stein graffiti that adorns the door to the 17frost shitter.
cover and vers0
Part of the idea was to play with drawing the way graff people play with stickers and do variations on tags that spell their name… so this one spells mine sometimes.
Sacre couer 3 tits tag I started doing in Paris in 1997 because sacre couer reminded me of the tajamahal somehow
you’re dreadin it
crowd variations
and here is a shot of the xt 300 i found on wikipedia. I think this paper is from the time he was doing the users manual which was a ton of work plus he had to hire a copy writer who spoke French I think to come up with step by step pages for setting up and using the machine. Plus he did all the in house marketing brochures and PR. This terminal was our whole world for a year or two and I think GTE sold about a half a dozzen of thme. LOL.
He hides in plain sight. The Alien, the free, the mason, the mea, the gold, and the rough diamond found at sunrise in the impossible grenade of Sunlight in fractured gold across the wall like his father’s paintings writ in
Some Regrets From Our youth
Ing: The Jersey Girl Heavy Metal Head Korean in college once showed me her red lace panities. It was in the context of a story about laundry and an ex boyfriend, or shopping, or Valentine’s day or something. I can’t recall.
She unbuttoned her pants shimmied them down to reveal the miracle of red silk lace beneath, but she did it in a very matter of fact way.
At that moment, I wanted her so bad, but none of it had felt like a come on so I sat still
Lost Puzzle Soldier. Lost up in one it.
All of it seems like an elaborate puzzle… a labyrinth.
The fickle pickle Queen with her tongue stuck out or in her cheek, or up her ass.
Impossible mega and mille foille like the crepe cake.
Debt all Prizes: Samson Rex Jawbone.com Fiat 500;
Still he finds dyptiques everywhere promising prizes… speakers and weed and cars and women and guitars and bars and stars.
Could it all be in his head or is it a confederacy of dunces?
He hides in plain sight. The Alien, the free, the mason, the mea, the gold, and the rough diamond found at sunrise in the impossible grenade of Sunlight in fractured gold across the wall like his father’s paintings writ in fire.
The Casket Concept:
Mos Def likes making little effigy diptyques of married couples kings and queens little red little blue queen red king, or the reverse it doesn’t matter. There are rules but he is making them up as he goes along, or hacking them without the rule book little red little blue married couples as if somehow that could save the love of a Sly Fox…
And perhaps in some universe this bull shit works…It’s a pleasant thought…
So many couples Mos makes… But she keeps talking shit to Mos, but Mos won’t hear it. He’s Def you see? Mos Def hears none of that shit and fuck all the markers anyways.
Gas tanks and bic lighters and magic markers and nail polish and hacked in special ways to wear crowns or stand a blue grease lead and a red grease lead on the pin of a tack as a hack for toggle or piston: Put it in the right hole it will toggle the switch the ark will launch and go right up to space to the station, but he doesn’t want to leave withour Sophie. Red, purple and green. Black and white…
The combinations become infinite and how does he have so many lighters? A rainbow of fire in his back pack?
Spray paint. Old bottles of Scotch put down in art to talk to father.
Shelter From The Storm
And in the end it is a football game that unites the men of the ward. A perfect game that plays out into overtime when The Redskinss finally scalp The Cowboys. Mos Def feels like he finally gets football. It’s like a novel for people who don’t like fiction.
Mr. Delicious wakes up on the psych ward of Stamford Hospital and Mr. Delicious says: “I don’t want to die.”
Mr. Delicious changes out of his mother moldy shirt and becomes Mos Def, or rather changes into the shirt from the day before. Back in Black, he thinks. Even Mos Def can hear Bad Vibrations on the ward. A strange disturbance in the The Force.
He marches down the hall, past the nurses’ station, around the day room to the activity room. There, the new clock radio is pinging away… a window open.
A paranoid thought dances to the front of his consciousness that this could be a signal. If he can hear it so could an outside intruder, conspirator, whatever…CIA, NSA Google Glass Ninjas!
Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean that they’re not out to get you.
Twisted, drugged, limping in a rough footed teeter he returns to the glass cage and tells nurse Nathalia that something is wrong. Nurse Nathalia is the precisely vague color of the caramel sauce on a vanilla sundae. Her face the proverbial cherry on whole dessert.
“Something seems out of sorts in the group room,” he says.
“How so?”
“An alarm is going off… With the window open. It could be a signal. I assume it is. It probably isn’t, but let’s assume it is a break out, or a break in? What with Ebola as a vector, you know…”
“I’ll look into it,” she says and smiles and the world turns right side up for a precise toothsome moment of beauty.
But then she doesn’t look into it. Instead, she sends Nurse Ratchet … not her perfect self. Ratchet is Ratchet with an ass like a mini fridge but unlike Ratchet from cuckoo’s nest, she’s quiet and distant and vague and seemingly burnt out on crazy. She’s not evil, she just doesn’t really pay much attention to the loonies any more. It’s a job. Like walking dogs… but less rewarding.
She opens the door and blamp blamp blamp it is the new clock radio.
“Thanks,” I say.
She shrugs.
I walk back up to the hall to see Nathalia sitting like a jewel in a glass vitrine. She smiles at me and all of a sudden life is infinite and worth living in.
“Where are you from?” Mos Def asks.
Harbor Point Nathalia said. And Mos Def remembers the ALE chimney of the Yale Lock Factory and Jesus shot down in the street and Cowboy and the Lost Wax Residue paintings.
“No I mean ethnically. Where are your PEOPLE from?” I ask.
“Jamaica,” Nathalia says..
“Ting. Ting,” He says. “There had to be a Jamaican named Nathalia on this ship. Nice casting gentlemen… and Ladies.”
And then he walks on down the hall wondering who is playing her in the movie.
“She plays herself! The Engenu roll,” He announces to the surveillance equipment on the ceiling.
Maybe Mr. Delicious is directing?
Mr. Delicious wishes he’d packed a James Brown or a Bruce Springsteen T. Shirt. He has paid the cost to be the boss. Maybe a Sinatra shirt… naaaah too Guido.
Later I ran into Prudence Le Roc, or Molly Ringworm, or whatever you call her. Crystal Meth. Prudence had on a fright face of makeup and pink silk pajamas and her fashion glasses.
She says in the phone, “I’m not going up to see you. You owe me two dollars and fifty cents!” She hangs up and tells me, “He likes his cigars, but he was supposed to pay me back.”
