With Apologies to Nixon

At exactly 10:05 am my sub-conscious took over my conscious. I was staring at the carcasses of the waffles that I had for breakfast. Their syrupy juices swirling together like a raging torrent. Then it happened. I stared at the bottle of maple syrup. A Canadian maple leaf was on the bottle. I froze. What's this? Is this what it is to be Canadian? Drinking beer and maple syrup while having five o'clock shadow, chopping trees with my red checked shirt on? I pondered this for some time. I couldn't grasp it. The sub-conscious had a grip on me. I was losing it. Then tearing my eyes off the bottle I glued them to my plate. I saw him. Nixon. His face, smeared and sticky, gazing up at me. I had to get away. I couldn't allow him to get me. So I slowly backed away, trying to appear calm in front of maple Nixon. I went around the room and decided my only chance was the window. I slowly, slowly, slowly began gather the provisions I would need for such a daring, and risky endeavor. I grabbed my shoes, no sense in running out in the cold without them. Wearing my leather jacket that I had slept in the night before I moved like smoke across the room gathering my needs. Two tins of beans, a lamp, three socks (not pairs), and my red checked shirt. I scrambled away out the window onto the fire escape, looking for any Nixon agents that were trying to halt my sudden discovery of the maple goodness of Canada.
I slowly went down my feet ringing like the bells of Notre Dame against the rusted metal. Every window could be the last I see. I crept with great care down, down, down like I was descending into the bowels of hell. Maybe I was, trying to escape Nixon, going to go to the very edges of reality. Or perhaps just mine. Finally after what seemed like minutes I reached the parking garage. I leaped and slid among the parked cars. Blatant shows of opulent wealth all around me. Or the inane desire to show ones superiority to another being. I finally reached my own chariot. I got the keys out trying not to make a jangling noise alerting my pursuers that I had taken the lamb. Opening the door which creaked in groaned in protest I threw my provisions for the trip in the back. I put the key in the ignition and turned it.
"Traitor" I exclaimed as the car roared to life, like a dragon woken by a vengeful knight. I couldn't stop now. I had to get out and fast. Pressing my 10 dollar sneaker against the pedal I screeched out of the parking lot leaving only smoke and a memory behind. I was free. For now.
Driving along the road I began to question my motives and wondering why all the trouble. But my sub-conscious was in control. I had no logic, no reason. My conscious self was locked in a metaphysical cage deep within me, powerless to help me. So I drove on. White lines were shooting across the blackened sky at me. Then I adjusted my head. The blue sky was now above with the sanguine darkness below. The white lines, like white lies were being hurled at me. Shot by the agents of Nixon in an attempt to stop me. But no one could. Green, yellow, red. Colours I should have known but didn't. At least not then. Red. Communists. Nixons' communists trying to put an end to my adventure. All around me people were braking in a uniform, proletariat way. I sped through. Cars yelled at me as I flew by. I paid no heed. Nixon can't win this round. I won't allow it.
On and on I drove. I couldn't turn on the radio for fear of the Nixon communists blaring propaganda ads at me. I knew my name would be on the news. Headline news. That's just what they wanted. They wanted me to turn on the radio, lose that second of concentration and crash my freedom ride into an unthinking tree. I could see the headline, "Man loses life on road, Nixon to make winning death". No, they wouldn't get me. I kept driving. The sky turned a communist gray. As if sensing the very thing that was keeping me moving. I knew my destination now. But saying ti would ruin it all. When I got there there would be agents waiting to grab me, hold me, take me to a 6-by-4 cell. So I stayed quiet. Just so they couldn't crack me.
Finally, at exactly 6:43pm I arrived at my sanctuary. Carefully listening to the gravel that cracked like bones beneath the balding wheels of my capitalist pride. I parked not in the driveway but a ways into the woods. The woods. Safe, primal, remote. No man could ever find me at this cabin, this castle. I procured my items from the back and rolled and dived to the door of the house of refuge. Can't let them get a clean shot. Nixon communist snipers waiting in the ancient ents around my fortress. I got the key to open the door to salvation. Then a thought oozed through my frantic mind. That's just what they wanted. To go through the door. In my mind I imagined Sergei and Boris Smith, two burly Nixon communists, waiting for that handle to turn and seeing my limp lifeless form fall to the cold earth. No, I couldn't go that way. So stealthily I slithered to the back door. Always got to go through the back door. I put the key in the lock preparing myself for either sanctification or salvation. The door creaked open.
Silence. Unyielding silence. I peered through with my peepers until I saw all of the one room shack. I hit the floor. Crawling on my belly like some Darwinistic fantasy until I was in the dead centre of the room. Leaving my belongings there I did a thorough sweep of the hut. No listening devices or agents of death I could see. So I had a few moments to collect and sort my thoughts like so many stamps. Wearily, I sank down into a vintage sofa. Then my sub-conscious pulled me again. I had to make it appear as if Nixon was here. So I got up, talking to myself in a most genteel sort of way, making it appear to all the world as if not a thing was worried about. When in my ramble and babble I got to the window I began to sketch the face I saw so long ago in that mess on my plate. Nixon. I drew him as I saw him. A leader of the pack. A mover and shaker. A bright star among dead worlds. I put his visage on every pane in that room. Satisfied at my clever ruse I went to sit on that chesterfield. Chesterfield. How distinctly Canadian. Where did that word come from. For a moment I was petrified. How could that word come into being? What was I becoming? Was I becoming a being?
Then I saw him. Nixon. He was everywhere. Snarling and laughing at me. I slowly bent down to the wooden floor and popped the top of a can of beans. Drinking and eating with Nixon all around me I felt the fear of a generation. A generator of fear was in my chest. When I had finished consuming the cold, slimy meal. I realized one thing. I was too late. My sub-conscious was pumping ideas and fears through my head like a heart. I left the cabin through the front door. Never use the back door for escapes. Their expecting that. I ran, ran, ran up a hill by the cabin, fleeing the caricature of Nixon. When my body gave out. I felt like a hundred and four. Wheezing and choking on my own ineptitude. I lay upon the summit. But still I heard him. A rumble from up in the clouds alerted me to his presence.
"Damn you!" I cried towards the heavens. My fears were reality. Or at least as reality can be when ones sub-conscious controls himself. I heard his laughter up in the stratosphere. Chuckling at my failure, guffawing at my lack of will, snickering at my hopelessness. I laid, spread-eagle up that hill when the spit from his sick jest came upon me. Slowly at first, then more and more until a torrent of saliva was on me. My jacket, leathery and cracked resisted the water but my red checked shirt sucked it up like it was dying in the desert. Wet, drenched, sodden, I scrambled like eggs down the mound. I couldn't believe it. He had won. Followed me to my place of dreams and now had invaded my state of mind. My sub-conscious strove to find a breadcrumb to the problem. Like a sledgehammer to a watermelon it hit me.
My conscious self was back in control. The raging maelstrom of ideas and thoughts were silenced to a trickle. My sub-conscious was tied and bind, chained and locked back within the dormant part of myself. I realized Nixon was dead. He and his Reds couldn't do anything to me or mine. I was free. I drove back reflective upon my sub-conscious expedition into the realm of the unknown. Was it worth it? I believe it was. To unleash the torrent of mad-cap insanity one must be willing to let go of ones perceptions. Now, I had returned to where it all began, but with apologies to Nixon.

FIN

War Mongering for Dummies

I like CNN. They make me so very happy. I mean, you have such a wide range of characters, it makes a Shakespeare play look like a 4th grade science project. Larry King, Lou Dobbs, Anderson Cooper and Wolf Blitzer they all bring such good times to todays sorrowful world. But recently my little news addicted head almost exploded with pure raw goodness. Its a very special week for CNN. Its PLANET IN PERIL!!!! week. Oh joy. More of Sanjay Gupta yelling at me to change my light bulbs to those swillerly quasi-Star Trek ones. But I digress...
First on the list, Larry King, a man so old I'm fairly certain that his suspenders are the only things keeping him from collapsing into a pile of dust. He's interviewed thousands of the worlds most influential people. And Kid Rock. But lately he seems to be losing it. I mean, Larry King is an icon. Kinda like tri-cornered hats were when he was a child. But again, he seems to always be on the verge of yelling at "Betty" from "Arkansas" asking Paris Hilton what her dreams are. Poor Larry. If I get to ever get interviewed by him, I'll probably just be awestruck by his large head.
Lou Dobbs, the medias version of Dick Cheney. Ol' Lou has been on a bit of a tizzy these last few weeks. Hearing how now Turkey is going to invade Iraq. Now, I'm no analyst (though this one time at band camp...never mind) but it seems that since there already is a "Coalition" of the "willing". Invading Iraq is kinda like inventing the car. Been there, done that, spent 32 billion dollars. Just last night Lou Dobbs coined one of my now favorite phrases when he was arguing with some folks on his show. "bofo". Yes Bofo. He used it twice but with two different contexts. Once, when asked about how a New York governor giving licenses away to illegal immigrants the governor would feel good about himself. Lou responded with, "Well, good on you Governor, bofo!". At that point my mind blanked in sheer joy. I hadn't been this happy since the Soviets put up a wall. At another point he declared that if Turkey invaded Iraq with their coalition well then "bofo". Lou Dobbs is an isolationist. And man, I wish he was on for two hours. Then I think he'd start beating a gay, liberal, grass-roots protester with the constitution. Thats my fantasy.
As previously stated its PLANET IN PERIL!!! week on CNN. They changed the letters of CNN from red (communists) to green (happy drunken Irish?). In the series Anderson Cooper, a man I don't trust (who has two last names?), Sunjay Gupta (tell me what my children can take as cold medicine will he?), and Jeff Corwin (I'm pretty sure he has rabies), go all over the world telling us that we'se all gonna die (insert Bayou swamp witch voice). While I'm not going to watch it along with 79% of Americans, it might be interesting to note that while they were running about watching blackened earth, destroyed rain forest, dead animals they could've done it much closer to home. Just look at Georgia right now. See the similarities? Yes, our little green ball called Earth is getting destroyed by us. Now that thats outta the way who wants roasted condor?
Now, I have lost my point along this jumbled mess but make no mistake I love CNN. Wolf Blitzer frightens me, Lou Dobbs entertains me, Anderson Cooper chastises me and Larry King is the undead. Plus they have a segment called "This week in War". That just is capitalism at its best right there. So, if you feel the need to lower gas emissions, turn out lights and save pandas please do so. Me, I'm going to build a bunker big enough for 4 people. Three I've already mentioned and Larry King, along with Kieth Richards shall wander the earth stopping to interview one another. What wonderful world.
By the by, you can argue with me about anything I've written. Problem is I'll just deny your existence. Because if you're not real, how can you be arguing with me? Thats exactly what I did to Erica Hill. Not reply to my fan mail will she.

This above all: to thine own self be true; And it must follow, as the night the day; Thou canst not then be false to any man.

Bringing Sexy Back

Yesterday one of my professors compared my ideas to little bits of lace and silk. I took offense at first, although I did not let on to her how offended I was, but later I revalued the comment. What is made of lace and silk I thought? Why Lingerie of course! So, either my prof is incredibly horny and creepy, or I have the sexiest ideas on earth. That's right history department, it is I not J.T. who is bringing sexy back.

Yet, on a more somber note. This is not the first time I've been given this speech by a professor. You know, the old, "you're just an undergrad and you're confusing me therefore you must be an idiot." No bitch, I am an artist and by comparing my ideas to beautiful clothing you are just supporting that idea. I can make people with disgusting bodies feel good about themselves. Yet, everytime I try to articulate these ideas I come up against a wall. Will I continue to come up against this wall and futily destroy myself? Or, should I stand back for a time and wait and then with one great effort level the wall and all that surrounds it? I'd like to see a piece of lace do that...