6/19/23

Thich Quan Duck (Edited Version)




I don’t know where to buy cocaine in Thailand, but you can buy ganja everywhere here. Siam is the Amsterdam of the Orient. 


If I could get a blue vile of pharmaceutical cocaine, the crystals, I would snort once a month, storing it in the freezer. 


I eat ganja cookies 24/7, around the clock, I love getting stoned.


Weed is magical and beer is sweet. Who needs cocaine? Ganja is the most powerful drug in the universe. 


It’s a pain reliever stocked by hospitals around the world.  


There is no such thing as pure cocaine, it's cut with talcum powder, sugar, baking soda, caffeine, heroin, or fentanyl.


Only a fool snorts fentanyl. 


Quality hard liquor is safe to drink if you don't drink to get loaded. 


Jack Daniels, Dewers, Markers, or Añejo Tequila, are nectars of the Gods. 


Most people in the world live from day to day without a bank account. Others, a minority, are insulated with dough and worry free. 


The world is unjust, eat the rich, my mags are rusting and my breaks don’t work. 


I didn’t choose to be here, it chose me, I’m jinxed. 


It’s very hot outside, jai lawn, mak.  


People are afraid of AI and mass surveillance like it's the Stasi, and it will be.    


Yeah, I'm a Eurotrash nail-biter, who gets loaded every day. 


Someday Martians are gonna hoist me aboard their flying saucer. I will study telephathia, sell out, bow, and kiss their feet. 


Harvard Medical School says white-bread sunbathers are at a higher risk of getting skin cancer than people of color. Albinos should stay out of the Sun.   


In 250 years it will be so hot that mankind will need to be evacuated to the Moon, Mars, Heaven, or Hell, fat chance, I doubt it, Heaven and Hell, he he, you can't see Heaven or Hell.


None of us wants to burn alive. 


During the Viet Nam War, Thich Quan Duck was a Vietnamese Mayana Buddhist monk who immolated himself on 11 June 1963,  protesting the persecution of Buddhists by the South Vietnamese government led by Ngo Dinh Diem.


Thich Quan Duck was in a Saigon park when he doused himself with gas and flicked his Bic. 


The smell of Quan’s burning flesh was awful, similar to the smell of burning garbage, or plastic. 


There are few things more painful than burning alive. 


It wouldn’t be something I would do. 

6/16/23

Pan (The Edited Version)





There’s nothing like a baby goat, they can jump straight up in the air landing on their feet, or jump sideways. 


The mainstay of a goat’s diet is hay and grass, so if you live in the suburbs and don’t want to mow your lawn, buy a small tribe of goats. 


Every urban and suburban farmer wants to keep goats. Fortunately, zoning permitted, you can keep a goat in your yard.


Some cities condone urban goat-keeping including—  Seattle, Portland, Charlottesville, Columbus, and Milwaukee.


In astrology, the goat is Capricorn, the 10th sign on the zodiac. 


The centaur Pan has the head, body, and arms of a man with the torso of a goat. 


Pan the mythic God is roguish, luxuriating in taking the mickey out of hikers trekking the forest. 


He played the Pan flute, making it himself from Motani wood and bamboo. The sound of his improvised tunes flows through the forest hypnotizing those in ear range.  


Laying on his side on top of a tree limb, he gazes down at gullible hikers, ad-libbing horror stories, scaring them away. 


He lives like a chimpanzee in the forest— a vegetarian who picks fruit from trees and drinks river water. 

Otto Ringling organized an expedition into Greece’s Almyros Forest to capture Pan in 1919, packing ample kit— thick woven nets, blowpipes with ballistic syringes. 


Ringling wanted to put Pam on show, half man — half goat, the goat man, the Greatest Freak of The 2oth Century. 


When Ringling's men approach Pan, the mythical God dematerializes, disappearing on the spot making him impossible to catch. 


Pan is a Germanic leprechaun.

ASIDE from the author— How can I write 6, flow of consciousness pages on a centaur?

Once, on the outskirts of the Mark Twain National Forest near St. Louis, Pan hid in the bushes of a suburban Wildwood park, waiting for the sun to go down.


Leaping a metal fence with ease, he grabs clothes off a laundry line, like a prison escapee would. 

With difficulty, he slips into a pair of brown trousers, ripping them at the knee because his legs are curved. He puts on a long-sleeved white shirt and socks over his cloven hoofs.   


Pan walks the city streets of St. Louis a freak like the Elephant Man. 


Passerbys eyeball Pan, assuming he's crippled or on drugs. 


He walks into Eddy’s Bar, you can’t hear a peep in the place, the winos are there to drink in the shadowy pub. 


The barkeep doesn't know Pan's a centaur, he orders a drink saying,


pour me a drink mate.


a drink of what? 


anything.


Pan picks up the shot, the scent of whiskey sickens him. 


The city is no place for Pan. He dematerializes, wisping through a bulwark of atoms and molecules, through the streets of Wildwood at the speed of light to Mark Twain State Forest.


The goat man runs through the woods, running for a week, deeper and deeper into the woodlands. 


After eating a dozen wild apples Pan takes a few steps and keels over into a puddle of quicksand sucked in by a whirlwind through a cylindrical tunnel that bypasses the earth's blazing inner core as it passes through to the outer core.


Pan breaks through the thin crust of the red mantle into China's  Zhangjiajie National Forest.


The forest is full of fruit— dragon fruit, mangosteen, mango, longan, and rambutan.


5 Chinese Forestry scientists are measuring the width of Katsura trees when they hear exotic flute music and they're drawn to it, following the sound.

When the scientist see Pan they are shocked. Some run, others snap pictures of the goat man with digital camaras, unable to catch the goat man's image in their viewfinders. 

Pan then hurls insults at Chinamen, telling them they are weak little men who eat bats and squat when they pee,  


The Chinamen hustle out of the forest to their van, as they driveway one says,


没有人会相信我们在森林里看到的,所以把它藏起来。

 

If we tell our colleagues we saw the goat man they will think we're crazy, so bottle it up. 


Pan migrates south through the Kulan Shan mountain range to Bhutan. Like a goat, he's sure-footed in the mountains.


Bhutan is 71 percent forest so Pan can roam freely.


The farmers of Paro province worship Pan. They pray to him for good luck, placing fruit and sticky rice at the base of the goat man's tree as an offering. 


The rascal Pan gobbles up the alms, then belittles the farmers in Bhutanese, calling them dull-witted hayseeds, and milksop.   


The King of Bhutan, Jigme Khesar Namgyel Wangchuck orders a team of soldiers to go into the forest and capture Pan. 


When the soldiers come across Pan, firing a rocket net and entangle him.


Pan is caged like an animal in the Bumdeleng Zoo. 


The zookeeper places a bowl of chopped meat in Pan's cage, the goat man fingers the meat and smells it, he's nauseated. 


Craving fresh fruit he dematerializes, streaming out of the zoo in a lightwave, like a ghost. 


Pan lives in the sacred forest of Bhutan for the next 2000 years until a meteor collides with the earth, sending the planet into a tailspin. The goat man is airborne tumbling through the biosphere.


Eventually, Pan is pulled by gamma rays into the Martian craft Orion. The Martians overpower him without lifting a finger.

The goat man gets messages from the Martians telepathically, and answers them. 


The Martian children love Pan, they feed him boiled ants and sweet potatoes. 


A 2000-year-old Martian transmits a message to Pan,


Are the Earthlings friendly? They look pale next to Martians. 

6/12/23

Cuba

 





I met Lucia in Havana while she was working at El Gato Tuerto as a bartender, a lively place where Cubans close dance to Afro-Cuban music.

I order a bottle of Crystal beer, Lucia ignores me. To get her attention I say, 


I’m Henry Lucowski, I work at the Gringo Times writing feature articles on Cuban baseball and boxing. Excited Lucia asks, 


are the entradas free? 


Yes, gratis.


I meet my future wife after midnight in front of El Gato.


We walk to the Wiggle Club, she enjoys poll dancing. 


At 2AM, we're tired so we take a taxi home. 

 

In my 3rd-floor rental, we flop on the living room sofa, and she tells me,

I like long hair on guys, I ask her, 


do you have a bush? 


No, I shave it.


Sitting up naked in bed we page through the Kama Sutra, trying out a few positions, careful not to cum.

We sleep through the night and all day, waking at 5PM. I make a choriza omelet, and toast Pan Cubano, buttering it. Wearing my robe, Lucia takes her dress to be dry cleaned.


That evening at Mojito Mojito, El Fredico Blanca is on stage playing his composition El Brujo on a Japanese piano.


The're no open seats so we stand in the back.


After the concert, we go to a local place in an alleyway. Sitting on plastic chairs and tables we eat shredded pork, tortillas, black beans, drinking watermelon soda.


It's a cloudless night so we walk home. Lucia points at the sky saying, 


mirar, el Cazo grande y pequeña, there's Pegasus.


I ask if she can tell fortunes by reading the stars and she says, 


no.


At the apartment I play discs on my boombox, most likely the only one in Cuba, maybe Fidel had one, 

The average Cuban couldn't afford a record player so they listened to state-sanctioned radio, all news and classical music. 


I slip a disc in, the machine pulls it, spins it, bathing it with laser light to get sound.


It's Bob Dylan's Pledging My Time's, Lucia loves it, asking emphatically, 


who…..is….. that, Querida?  


Bob Dylan, 


she has never heard of him. 


I put on Leon Russell’s album, Americana— it’s country and western music and she says, 


gringo Musica hasn't made it to Cuba, there’s a US embargo, people are lucky to have a telephone. 


At noon we go for lunch in downtown Havana, eating at Van Van, it feels like Amsterdam inside, and there’s an open-air beer garden in the back. It’s secluded— bushed, treed, and flowered.  


Sitting at a picnic table, a teenage waiter with a waxed mustache and hair greased back take our order, Lucia like him saying,


guapa, a pitcher of fresh guava juice with 2 glasses and ice. You're built like a bullfighter, darling. 


Lucia massages my leg under the table, my cock swells some, a half-off, half-on hard-on. I tell her, 


baby not now, I don't want to soil my pants. 


When the guava juic comes, Lucia pours it into mugs, adding ice, spitting in them for good luck.

At 11PM we catch a taxi home.


We drink fresh brewed coffee in the morning then pack a bag for the beach. outside waving down a taxi, I tell the cabby,

amigo, take us to Campo Florida. 


At the beach, I buy a bikini for Lucia, I'm wearing boxer shorts. 

A large Cuban family is drinking beer and barbecuing chunks of fatty pork and chicken parts, they've set up an army tent under the palms.  


Lucia and I eat peanuts and drink Coca-Cola. 


She puts on her bikini in the bushes— she's all

tits and ass like a Columbian woman.


We run and dive into the sea, swimming out to where the water is over our heads, treading water. 


She takes off her bikini panties and then pulls off my boxer shorts, putting them on my head, it’s great fun. 


The hot sun's draining so we put on large Ts and walk to the taxi. 


Our taxi driver is asleep in a hammock strung between 2 trees. 


On the road to Havana, the cab's air conditioner goes on the fritz so we open the windows, the sea breeze flurries our hair.


That night we talk in bed all night, Lucia wants to get out of Cuba. 


At the American Embassy, we queue for 2 hours to talk to somebody.


The Embassy is no help. 


In the Coffee-Museum Revolución, we meet a dentist who knows a guy named Franky who can take us to Mexico in his speedboat. 


A few days later we meet the dentist at his office and he drives us to Mantanza Bay. His motive is unclear. 


We wade out to the speedboat with our suitcases on our heads with 2 other couples.


The boat is equipped with V8 Mercury outboard engine Franky bought in Mexico. 


It's dark out, Franky turns the navigation lights off. He can outrun the outdated and heavy boats of the Cuban Navy.


In the middle of the dark muck of the Sea of Mexico, he throttles the engine to low, refueling it with jerry cans full of petrol. 

Before sun up we are on the outskirts of Tampico Mexico, we know the drill, we wade ashore with our suitcases on our heads.


In Mexico City we stay at the Holiday Inn for a few days, this time having better luck at the US Embassy, the authorities agree to give Lucia a temporary visa.


We fly to Key West, my Friend Ringo picks us up in his Jeep. When Lucia get inside, she say, 


I love it a real yeep. 


It is imperative we marry so we go to the Key's County Court House and tie the knot. 


We are joined together at the hip, Siamese twins



 






6/4/23

Truman Peyote

 






My story Mexico has been well received, people are reading it. 


I'm going to write about the lionized American author Truman Capote. 


A few nights ago I dreamt I met Truman while boarding a plane at La Guardia airport. He was wearing a trench coat, taking it off he autographs the coat with a felt tip pen.


My first thought was, 


can I sell the autographed coat on eBay? 


I nudge Truman with my shoulder and say, 


In Cold Blood is a masterpiece. He brushes it off.


Truman Garcia Capote, born Truman Streckfus Persons, what a fucking name, Streakfus, was born on September 30, 1924. 


Capote rose above a childhood troubled by divorce, a long absence from his mother, and multiple migrations, discovering his calling as a writer at 8. 

He was born in New Orleans to Lillie Mae Faulk and salesman Archulus Persons. 

Truman’s parents divorced when he was 2 and he was sent to Monroeville, Alabama to be raised by Nanny Faulk, a distant relative he called Sook. Later in life, he says, 

her face was remarkable— not unlike Lincoln’s, craggy like that, tinted and by the sun and the wind. 

During high school in Monroeville, he was friends with Harper Lee, who would go on to become an acclaimed author and a lifelong friend. Lee wrote To Kill a Mockingbird— it’s intriguing how great-attract-great. 

In 1932 he moved to New York City to live with his mother and her second husband José García Capote, a former colonel in the Cuban army during Batista’s reign. 

In his early days, Truman says, 

I was writing really sort of serious when I was about 11. I say seriously in the sense that like other kids go home and practice the violin or the piano or whatever, I used to go home from school every day, and I would write for about three hours. I was obsessed by it. 

At the age of 21 Capote worked as a copyboy in the art department of The New Yorker. He worked there 2 years and was fired for angering the poet Robert Frost, how odd. 


During World war II, he was called for induction but turned down because army shrinks diagnosed him as neurotic, today I would be called 


During 1946 Truman wrote a string of short fiction, including, Miriam, My Side of the Matter, and Shut the Final Door, winning an  O. Henry Award for it. 


During an interview in The Paris Review years later, he spoke of his short story style saying,


obviously one can't generalize about them on a two-times-two-equals-four basis. Finding the right form for your story is simply to realize the most natural way of telling the story. The test of whether or not a writer has divined the natural shape of his story is just this: after reading it, can you imagine it differently, or does it silence your imagination and seem to you absolute and final?

In the 60s  a Harold Halma photograph was used to promote Truman’s book Other Voice and the photo was considered vexing because it showed Capote reclining exotically with a flower in his mouth gazing fiercely into the camera.

When Andy Warhol moved to New York he went bat shit crazy trying to meet Capote. Andy’s passion for Truman led to his first one man show, 15 Drawings Based on the Writings of Truman Capote at the Hugo Gallery. 

During the same period, he wrote an autobiographic essay for Holiday Magazine, Brooklyn Heights— A Personal Memoir.  

Then going on to write Breakfast at Tiffanys a novella brought together by three shorter tales— House of Flowers, A Diamond Guitar, and A Christmas Memory, which was first published in Harper’s Bazaar.

Oddly at the time in the late 50s the language and subject matter of the novella was deemed not suitable because of a concern by an advertiser, Pond’s Cold Cream. 

In 1965 Radom House published Capotes book In Cold blood— A True Account of a Multiple Murder and its Consequences. The story described the unexplained murder of the Clutter family in rural Holcomb, Kansas— quoting the the local sheriff as saying, 

this is apparently the case of a psychopathic killer. 

Fascinated by this brief news item, Capote traveled with Harper Lee to Holcomb and visited the scene of the massacre. 

Over the course of the next few years, he became acquainted with everyone involved in the investigation and most of the residents of the small town and the area. 

Rather than taking notes during interviews, Capote committed conversations to memory and immediately wrote quotes as soon as an interview ended. He claimed his memory retention for verbatim. 

Truman recalled his years in Kansas when he spoke at the San Francisco Film Festival in 1974,

I spent four years on and off in that part of Western Kansas there during the research for that book and then the film. What was it like? It was very lonely. And difficult. Although I made a lot of friends there. I had to, otherwise I never could have researched the book properly. The reason was I wanted to make an experiment in journalistic writing, and I was looking for a subject that would have sufficient proportions. I'd already done a great deal of narrative journalistic writing in this experimental vein. 

So I went out there, and I arrived just two days after the Clutters' funeral. The whole thing was a complete mystery and was for two and a half months. Nothing happened. I stayed there and kept researching it and researching it and got very friendly with the various authorities and the detectives on the case. But I never knew whether it was going to be interesting or not. You know, I mean anything could have happened. 

When the killers were arrested I made very close contact with these two boys and saw them very often over the next four years until they were executed. But I never knew ... when I was even halfway through the book, when I had been working on it for a year and a half, I didn't honestly know whether I would go on with it or not, whether it would finally evolve itself into something that would be worth all that effort. Because it was a tremendous effort.

In Cold Blood brought Capote much praise from the literary community, but there were some who questioned certain events as reported in the book. Writing in Esquire in 1966, Phillip K. Tompkins noted factual discrepancies after he traveled to Kansas and spoke to some of the same people interviewed by Capote. 

Truman was openly gay. One of his first serious lovers was Smith College literature professor Newton Arvin, who wrote a Herman Melville biography in 1951 and to whom Capote dedicated Other Voices. 

Ambitious university professors wrote books to maintain their tenure. 

Capote spent most of his life until his death with Jack Dunphy, a fellow writer. In his book, Dear Genius—A Memoir of My Life with Truman Capote, he explains the Capote he knew as, 

success driven, and eventually drug and alcohol addicted who existed in a world outside of their relationship. 

Capote was well known for his distinctive, high-pitched voice and odd vocal mannerisms, his offbeat manner of dress, and his fabrications. He often claimed to know intimately people whom he had in fact never met, such as Greta Garbo. 

He professed to have had numerous liaisons with heterosexual men including, Errol Flynn claiming they snorted and rub cocaine on their penises, surely a bogus tale. 

He traveled in an eclectic array of social circles, hobnobbing with authors, critics, business tycoons, Hollywood and theatrical celebrities, royalty, and members of high society, both in the U.S. and abroad. 

As for Hollywood Truman Claimed, 

I lost an IQ point for every year I spent on the West Coast. 

Capote never finished another novel after In Cold Blood. 

Blasted on LSD, he accompanied The Rolling Stones on their 1969 tour doing a bit for Rolling Stone Magazine 

In the late 1970s, Capote was in and out of drug rehabilitation clinics, and had a number of nervous breakdowns. 

He realized the only way he was going to get off the shit was to kill himself. 

After a hallucination-based seizure in 1980 that required hospitalization, Capote became a recluse. 

Capote died in the Bel Air Los Angeles home of Joanne Carson, wife of late night TV host Johnny Carson. 

Through out his life there was an ongoing freud between Truman and Gore Vidal, who said of Capotes death, 

a wise career move.