ein flasche mineralwaßer/jeanmarié/one red stripe beer/one shot of jäger/zigaretten/20mgAderol. four cups black tea.

vorwort

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the distant sound of thunder may in fact be rain-droppéd horses charging towards self-identification. (thus the human need in post-post-modern times for that which is customizable. user-friendly. interactive. )

part the first.

being the air and

fire.

i

m had just put the cd in and i told her i thought she*d like the first song.

ii

i told them to pick whichever mix they wanted and that one had been made by me and the other had been made by She. they selected @random based on certain aesthetic delusions which even descartes would have to agree are better just to accept than to try to explain. j ended up with the one She had made and m got mine and we were jamming out to it when her roommate came in with her persian friend and they had been taking tabs and were all fucked up and doing stupid shit that rollers do.

iii

we felt free sailng into the slicy orandge and blu that was the evening in question. sailing to where we havent decided bvut expect rather that the psilocybe will summon us somewhere on the cosmic medium and we’ve got to be reall attentive to the universe to deciver or cover what gfahgddnt been uncovered. though the pavement is a dried up cloud and we breath e the breaths of airs so foreign unfamiliar in both its airy luft and the pure smell of trees and uncultivation.

iv

we showed up first to the didgeridoo as was planned and it turned out there was a cover; we stepped over across to the ptarmigeon to see if some kid i knew who had promised me a drink was there. he was the one who had introduced me to nat shermans and thereby changed the lives of each and every member of our group if you can call it that. we got to one field and m and i jumped the fence and the two js stayed behind. we didn’t see any shit and probably there was someone

v

why there cant be any good music anymore because of our decadance. she said. and going to prove the impossible really exists so that i can shove a roof theron or otherwise manipulate its finding. knowing the basis of the swampy exterior which forms itself ruthlessly on every of that kind. submerged. daunted. dreadfully ungodlike bound by some repetitive task which is the burden whicch they musst share. violins dont seem to make it int

vi

ritual of pass and hit becomes so routine that five js take next to no time to ravash and you find yourself with nowhere., so we got back in the car and decided against it cause we had the aderols and so we headed to the didgeridoo to see if e and m were there. i could feel the weight of all things resting, quite comfoirt

vii

i dont do drugs

all my friends are on their holidays

though it be quite a few years since 1995 these girls seem to be more than just friendds. and this real spacy girl who is studying elementary education sos she can brainwash the little kids to be communists comes up and throws ass up in my face and asks me how ive been lately and laughs with a sort of sickening empty glazed over marble-eyed stare. i introduce my girlfriend& she hops up and announces i’ll see ya around and hops off to the nex

viii

out on the patio theres this little guy with the taste and mongolianism of little jumping bean. health had become the painstaking pain of the jogaajettitofuho. she maketh her body more thin this time with her face over the the inside of a toilet bowl treated with teflon. ive seen the comm ercials—you know with an aaryan looking woman demonstrating her better living through cia/nasa technology. and here some drunk ass sorority girl is puking her guts out and it just slides right off. some white bitch with cleanly shaven arms and newly aired protestant work ethics sprayed that shit down with a protective barrier of teflon. you alright in there? someone asks. fo-shizzle she feebly manages to gurgle up. we haad come from the ptarmigan which was probably the worst bar ive ever been in. reality tv fucking freaks me out—said the little soy bean ,man—except that fantasy island shit—that shits dope fool. dejected&dissappointed in myself and humanity i headed back inside. wanting to ask how many people believe that what is real is real merely because they are told it must neccesarily be

ix

then some cowwboy gets to the toilet just in time beffore he violently* retches himself empty and thgen heaves a feww dryly just for ssafe measure. god knows how long he was in there and someone got the idea to text him to make sure he hadn’t fallen asleep in there. She turned to me and nodded her head rhythmically and with calculated stoic pose as though the little bleeps and rings of everyday life which we generally learn to philtre out rang crystal clear to her and chimed a rhthm which was and is her rhythm.

x

im reminded of the vomitoriums of the roman empire. we all saww the fall and decline of the roman empire as chillingly soothful towards our own fate if we are to identify ourselves which this place—something i haven’t yet come to terms with.

who is this?—this kicks ass. celia crúz. the one who wore fruit on her head and sang zoom zoom zoom on sesame street. and from wyclef jean? the very same. you know she died like a month or so aago. i said. you know who else died?—m’s roommaate was stroking her arm with a feather and sstaring into a electromagnetic field of the vviolet (and ultraviolet) spectrum. sshe had asked, presumably not to illicit a response and then announced the deaths of both john ritter and jonny cash.

xi

strange and sad respectively.

it seems strange that they would die on the same day, She said.

i saw him on an interview. said m. he had lost his wife recently and was just sort of waiting to die. looks like its two’s company now. said the persian guy. not john ritter, m explained. jonny cash is cashed. it’s sad you know. have ya’ll heard his last single—before he died. you should download it. it’s a cover of the NIN song hurt. you know? theres a tori amos one as well. i said. i probably said the same thing a million times but was never really sure if aany of it had really happened or if i were only some part of a grand delusion which extends beyond aesth

xii

on the balcony was this guy i had met a few times before. he wwore a tam-o-shanter with chucks and smoked a pipe on his way to class. he remembered my name—i had forgotten his. it was his room we had been sitting in all evening and i had been admiring hiss books without even knowing to whom they belonged. there was this other girl i had known like two years ago and she was now in grad school. she immediately thrust a postit note in my hand and a marker so i could write down my email address. it seems at time s that humans can never be content to just see one after not having done so in a long time. i did not ask her to send me a hundred meaningless spams a day to which i never respond

viii

so the roommat e stumbles in al diggy-diggy- di

rolled up on X and making a complete fool of herself in some bling bling sunglasses that she probably found at mariah carey’s garage sale. she turned it off right in the middle of celia crúz’s last gasps of survival recorded on a magnetic or in this case laser engraved mdium and put in her own mix cd which began with a very overplayed sarah mclachlan song.