It was a snowy day in the town of South Bend, Washington. I stared out across the bitterness of the bay, and ate granola and breakfast tacos cooked in a large tin kettle. The OCEAN'S MOST MAGNIFICENT FLOWER rocked rhythmicly with the surf, and I felt weary with the upcoming orgy of preperation. January 12, 2006
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January 13, 2006
I was prepared to begin final preperations for loading the OCEAN'S MOST MAGNIFICENT FLOWER, but was lost in thought while loading box after box of RAMEN. I angerly threw box 12 to the ground, my eyes lost focus, and CLIFF HUXTABLE ran past me in a flash, my mind was given to such fits of trivial focus, the doing was never much fun. These moments of distraction were much more favorable. He rounded the track before me and you could see the old man laboring, but cocky in his triumph. He had the race won, he needed only to finish it--carry the batton home. And if CLAIRE hadn't rigged the damned race with that professional sprinter lady, none of this would have happened, my life wouldn't be so fucking miserable and I could just put the damned RAMEN on the boat and get the hell out of WASHINGTON. But CLIFF had an ego like a mother-faulker, and impressionable boys and men need something to blame their fallacies on when they can't finish something they've started. Two seagulls mocked me from the snowy deck of the OCEAN'S MOST MAGNIFICENT FLOWER.
January 14, 2006,
I'm watching a small tv set up on milk cartons and flipping seashells into an oldish straw hat. I'm getting up and pacing, they're talking about Payton Manning, and this only makes me more distraught. Before my eyes, the world's values are crumbling. They are adrift and misplaced, and credit card commercials are rampant. I mutter "cut that meat" and then reach for my gun. All seven of my cats escape to safer parts of the lodge with disinterested glares. I fire several shots into the hull of the FLOWER and wait for it to snow. The sound puffs into the silence, and around me, the trees are chanting CUT THAT MEAT. The sky opens up as I wait for tomorrow's trip to CAPE DISAPOINTMENT. Bang bang.
January 15, 2006
Jaws III is on. The wind is howling against the planks of my small wooden shack. I refuse to even look out the windows today, I'm sure there's a boat waiting somewhre. My iron kettle is cooking beans and the smell is seeping out of gaps my stupidity and depression refused to insulate. JAWS is slowly moving towards the TV, and the expression on my face matches that of Dennis Quaid, horrified, sweaty, out of options. There's so much I wish I could run and scream and do, but a big styrofoam shark is about to bust through all the layers of cinema glass I thought may hold. I hear carolers outside among the wind and anger. I want to run outside and yell at them for not knowing its January, and that even were it December, their cause is lost, but instead I hunker down, brush a few cats off my humble table and eat beans that don't satisfy my hunger.
January 16, 2006
Randi or Tanya? Questions linger like stains to canvas. The window is crusted over with the white shit of January and I can barely see the FLOWER. Its out there somewhere. I hope for a bout of logorreah, but find myself silent as ever. To my left, a can of Spaghettios rests on the a crook of my 17th century cast-iron stove. The lid is partly open, provocatively calling me in, an orgy of meatballs and orange goo, calorie after calorie, one cell with the essential choice I have, muscle or fat? Randi or Tanya? Spaghettios or ...but wait, prancing, prancing, out the window my eyes have captured a deer, and I hunch below sight, sleeking towards the corner where my rifle sits. Layers are sliding back in this moment. Something much more focused and happy is being exposed. I must slay the deer, it stands in the snow, 12 points bristling, and to my right, the Spaghettios nag, finality and proximity, steadiness, commitment, canned Spaghettios ready to be poured. My eyes twitch back outside and I'm creeping out the door, barefooted before I know. Theo knows where I am, in thirty minutes he must choose between his steady girlfriend or a sweet flame named Randi, with an 'i'. He wants the hunt, the unexplored. I search the landscape, fuck the spaghettios. I raise an angry rifle, the deer spots me and runs away. Spaghettios or deer? Ask Cosby.
January 17, 2006
I've studied this problem assiduously in my head and there is no solution. What is powerlessness? IT retches at my soul in the middle of the night, so much so last night, many of my cats have hidden themselves in parts of the cabin I dare not look. And whether it was my imagination or not is moot, but several deer antagonized my sleep by rapping on my windows. The cats were probably far more tiffed. Their eyes follow me, venom veiled in kitten. So the question remains, and for the answer, kittens have no sanctity. CLAIRE HUXTABLE is always right, always indesputably right, and if she is wrong, she'll argue herself into right. How Cosby doesn't burn with a fever at this is inconceivable. He's a clever, witty, smart man, and yet, CLAIRE is always right. She beats down resolve and logic, passion and memory. If only, she had the foresight, and clemency to let CLIFF believe that she had indeed not been blackmailed into asking him to the halloween dance...my hands were shuddering, I couldn't hold the spatula any longer and it clanked to the wooden deck. It was her. The kittens sensed it too and huddled together near a painting I'd done of my fireplace. I would be forever lost, rooted incorrectly in a scandalous illusion, until I could right the wrongs of the Cosby household. The FLOWER would never leave the bay because of the damaging work of attorney CLAIRE HUXTABLE. Several kittens appeared to nod in approval.
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