a_new_story Teenage Jesus Add a line at your leisure. Mot walked down the stairs and out into the street with his cello and a backpack. 011004 ... DannyH The humidity outside was a perfect match for the torpor in his mind. "Why am I doing this to myself again?" he thought. 011004 ... unhinged the people near him always stared confounded because no matter the bustle he always moved at his own distinctly slower pace. 011004 ... silentbob his eyesight graced the ground like a bird stalking prey. what was he going to do with all the garbage in his head and heart? He couldn't sort it all out in his head. all the things they said to him... all the lies they told. Why would they do this to him. They just used him to get to each other. 011004 ... Teenage Jesus Still, he had to play tonight, and play well. "They're all going to be there" he thought. 011004 ... Skalar "She's going to be there. I might as well give it my best shot." It wasn't so much the pressure that bothered him, but the crowd. The eyes that locked onto him. Her eyes. There was something about her that he couldn't quite explain. It was as if there was a dark menacing shadow that embraced him when she stared. 011004 ... birdmad he paused for a moment and had a cigarette, watching the smoke rise in delicate tendrils through the crowded skyline, hoping it would settle his nerves. it didn't. apprehensively, he started walking again 011004 ... Teenage Jesus Thirty minutes later he was there. He could see some of the members of the orchestra getting out of their cars and heading into the performance hall. Aprehension began it's usual transformation to fear. Victor Herbert's Cello Concerto #2 in Eminor was the last thing on his mind. All he could think about was her; and her stare. He fought to keep her name from forming in his mind, but he couldn't stop himself...from...naming her. 011005 ... Teenage Jesus Unable to control himself, he screamed her name at the top of his lungs... 011005 ... silentbob dispite his antics no one noticed. no one cared, no one saw through this thick black-tuxedoed facaade. no one shared in his misery. he entered and went back stage. he drank water because he thought it might help him get a handle on what needed to be focused on. it didn't. He made his way to the stage and peeked through the curtain just to see who was out there. she was there. sitting next to him. everything inside him shutdown. 011005 ... DannyH How did she do it? The whole two week run had sold out weeks before the first performance. How could she be here to torment him every night? 011005 ... DannyH despite the fever in his heart, the professional inside soothed him with a cool clear voice. "Its the last night. Its too important to fail. just step out there. I'll do the rest. I'll take over, just like I always do. Put her out of your mind. Do your exercises. Focus. One more performance, just one more, then its all over." 011005 ... silentbob Mot often relied on this voice to help him through his most trying moments. when he found out that she had lied and that HE had lied adn that they were together, his first instinct was to kill. but the voice took over and told him, "Mot, look, kid, you've got the weight of the world on your shoulders, you can't shrug it off, ok? You have to stay strong. Just don't worry, and i'll handle everything." and Mot didn't kill either of them. They still didn't know that he knew... 011005 ... Teenage Jesus The conductor made his way on stage to thunderous applause. Mot stood in the wings and waited for the noise to subside. That's it. He was on. He carried his cello to his chair in the center of the stage. The crown exploded with applause. "Lynn Harrell indeed" he thought to himself. He knew he was better than him. The audience knew as well. And there she was. His eyes locked with hers, and for a moment he froze. 011005 ... mister mourning his mid drifted as he stared and he nearly missed his cue, but, being the consummate professional, he picked up just in time and as he began to play, he was able to shake the trepidation at least until the next cresccendo 011005 ... DannyH Suddenly, he was playing the cello in front of an audience. "It's Ok." Said the voice, "I thought I'd bring you along for this one." Mot looked down at his hands. They were playing the cello like a professional. "Watch this." said the voice, "Look at her. Feel me." He looked out into the audience. - Is this what it's like? - "Yes. Look at her." She was in the front row. Her eyes were in the front row. "Look at her. Feel me." Mot looked deep into her eyes, beginning to understand. His soul slid down into unfamiliar fingers. And he played. 011005 ... farmfish the song was not the one he had spent hours rehearsing. it was her song, he could tell by the blushing, the heavy breathing, the slow way she closed her eyes and drifted away into the memory of the two of them. and when he closed his eyes, he could see inside her longing, for he was there where they once knew love could erase time. 011005 ... silentbob her new lover was shocked at what was happening to his daisy next to him. Why was this happening? She had told him he was over Mot, that she never liked him. Why was this happening now? How was Mot controlling her this way? He decided to put an end to it. He stood up and began to scream 011006 ... Casey Mot's lover felt as if she was drowning in a flood of passion and lust. It was as if everyone else in the room has suddenly faded away. It was just Mot and her. Like an automatic reflex Mot's hazel eyes closed as gently as a feather floating to the ground. The brains and hearts of both members of the couple were filled with conflicting emotions. The moment of truth was now upon them. 011006 ... god mot suddenly felt the familiar and unwelcome spasm of diarrhea deep within his bowels. 011006 ... unhinged the dream... his eyes focused back on the bustling street. the end of his concert career kept flashing before him but this time he kept walking, kept the crowd in front of him in his mind's eye. hard to think that he was walking to his usual corner on elm and houston. hard to think he was going to spend the rest of the day pouring out his soul on a street corner for some asshole's spare change. he had begun to draw a crowd of bums. the old black one with the white beard always asked him to play the 'fall morning song' which was really the prelude from the first sonata by bach. mot found it kind of funny that even the bums liked bach. and then it came up in front of him...the stone bench on the corner of elm and houston that was made to play the cello on. the old black bum waved good morning and mot sat down and took the cello out of the case and began to tune it. 011007 ... god the sun shone down bright, as it did on everyone, rich or poor. nothing else mattered but the music, the moment in time. he stared out into infinity and began to play. 011007 ... Teenage Jesus "Halt simulation." Mot exited the chamber to resume his duties in engineering. 011007 ... silentbob "Tim you old dog! How the hell ya doin?" "pretty good mot. except my lover left me for another. what do i do?" "Well, you could play her an intensely riveting cello piece, but i imagine you might just have a weird dream instead." "Mot, you old bastard, why are you so vague?" "Dont ask me... ask_god ! " 011008 ... Teenage Jesus Tim left disgruntled. Mot began talking to himself, again. "Either I always tell the truth or I'm always lyin'...just lyin'! Damn I'm thirsty..." 011009 ... silentbob "Mot...." a voice said. "Mot dreamer........let's dream." it was a soft voice, but when with which he was unfamiliar. He was in dressed all in white, even his eye glasses frames were white. an angel appeared before him. she had *her* face. "i realize now you did it all for me... but i need your help now... i'm in a great amount of trouble.... help me...help me..." Mot awoke to found a crowd of people watching him. He did not like crowds. he coul dbarely perform in front of them 011009 ... mister mourning he wished he had taken the pill the third chair violin had offered him to soothe his nerves he remembered that guy had neary suffered a complete breakdown after his relationship with the enigmatic redheat in the clarinet section had gone terribly awry. well, if nothing else, there was the absinthe 011009 ... Teenage Jesus Mot shook his head violently. "What the hell?!" Cellist, engineer? Cellist, engineer? Suddenly, a half thawed chicken struck him in the back of the neck. "Mot! Mot! Wake up, your safe now!" "Where am I?" 011010 ... silentbob the half thawed chicken explained, "You're in the land of All_things_edible You're now one of the many foods that didn't quite get eaten and left in the refridgerator for a number of weeks, collecting all kinds of green life forms." "But i'm a man." "And i'm a CHICKEN! Now get back to work!" "What the fuck? I thought you said i was safe now" "Safe is such a relative term. by safe i meant, enslaved! Go!" 011010 ... mister mourning he felt the sting of a lash at his back and realized that one of the slave-drivers was a plate of potato salad "so," he thought, as he got in line, "this is what happens when food goes bad." 011010 ... unhinged he woke finally to the nurse shaking his shoulder. they said it was one of the symptoms. the dreams where he thought he was waking up but he was really still dreaming. and that cello...that damn reoccuring cello. maybe it was just a fantasy. there was no explanation based in reality for it. "Time for your morning pills Mot" he stuck out his hand for the blue pills and swallowed them a little too quickly. 011010 ... god they caught in the back of his throat. he gagged, then vomited a little. he washed it all down quickly with a dixie cup full of lukewarm tap water. 011010 ... god he crumpled the cup and dropped it in the wastebasket, now brimming over with used cups. he ambled back to his corner under the semi-watchful eyes of the attendants. he slumped down in an uncomfortable hard wooden chair, cold and unyielding. his mind drifted. thoughts of his cat, sonya, played across his consciousness. cello music creeped and drifted through his brain as the drugs began to take hold. 011011 ... the corrector crept and drifted. 011011 ... unhinged the schizophrenic from down the hall wandered past the door and started chuckling. mot couldn't help but wonder that she could read his mind. she always laughed at the right moments. well maybe they were the wrong moments... 011011 ... Teenage Jesus Mot looked at the number on the vile: kx21. "Hmmm..." thought Mot. "I don't want to argue_with_god again, but I must follow the teachings of Dave_Christ. What I really need is cocktails_at_midday. But, first, the Morphine." 011012 ... monde It was always the Morphine, wasn't it? Morphine. Heroin. Opiates: the mass of his religion. It always came back to Lou Reed's goddamned wife, who wasn't satisfied with Lou and all her millions of husbands and just had to go and seduce Mot as well, all those years ago. Back in 1971, Mot had managed to get himself strung out immediately after graduating from college with a Ph.D in psychology. He started taking heroin after discovering he didn't want to be a psychiatrist when he grew up. After he also discovered that all of a sudden this was that time called "when you grow up" - and now, he did not want to "be" something. Mot understood that this situation was considered by most people to be a very bad thing. When people turned 25 and still were not ready to "be something" - or weren't able to do all the little chores that "being something" required of them...people seemed to always say bad things about them and look all sad and concerned while saying them. Now people would talk about him that way too. Almost immediately after getting his Ph. D. he had realized with anguish that he could never be a shrink and be able to live with himself. It would have been a lie.He'd realized in a blinding flash of sinking-feeling comprehension that if he were to take his gift for talking to mentally disabled, unstable people, and turn it into that which he did for a living each day, it would result in an unfortunate and inevitable attitude change in him towards the patients. He would end up bored by them, inconvenienced by them, frustrated by them and worst of all, completely in need of their money. Connecting patients to your own life by the tightly-choking nooses of Light Bill, Phone Bill, Rent. He would get bored with talking to them. It would just be his job, not Doing Something To Make Someone Happy. He would be depressed. The patients would see him depressed and not believe he could help them not be depressed if he couldn't get undepressed himself first. It wouldn't be anything like his college years, when he'd made an eccentric reputation for himself stemming from his penchant for seeking out unhinged schizoid girls and women to help them sort out their crap, find the lost self-control systems and then find new ones that work better. then when they were ready, he'd help them plug the new ideas into their slightly-more-together minds. When he talked of his successes to anyone, the response was always "Why don't you become a psychiatrist? You'd make a good one. Most of the are so disappointing..." Mot had studied for four years - mad workaholic years. In grad school, he was subjected to not only classes and lectures but also much he was expected to do in his spare time, the never-ending conferences and symposia, the soirees and socials and formals and intellectual masturbation tea parties and... By the start of his final year of grad school he had well nigh enough of the bullshit and pared back his schedule. He needed more time for Being Social For Real. And Surreal. Which was a lot more interesting. Mot figured if he was going to study to be a shrink, the first thing he needed to do was get properly shrunk. Like any proper psych student in that era he kept his hair long and he took a large number - a triple-digit one - of acid trips. Most of which were very good, and exactly two of which - through no fault of either the acid or himself - went very, very badly. Acid had helped him do two things: bring his mind closer to where their minds were, so that he might better understand them. And bring his body closer to their real world bodies. Translated: When Mot hung around the college studying all day and night he did not get sex. When he hung out with Melinda Belinda, he did. Quite often. And not just from Melinda Belinda. Melinda Belinda had many friends. She was a popular girl, it seemed. Mot had loved the crazy psychedelic girls best. Especially the British ones. Their mannerisms, so exotically alien and mysterious, unceasingly flared his flame. Each one was a universe of stark beauty, childlike innocence, feral emotions and absurd humour always, some intentioned, some not. In bed, every mental case girlfriend he had was a different flavour of savage, primal glee. Some caused as much pain as pleasure - or more, their hysteria allowing. None seemed to be able to sustain him longer than a month or two. After the second Bad One he stopped taking acid, but queerly enough, to this very day, he finds himself dreaming of tripping nearly every time he sleeps. This was something that used to annoy him, but more and more, he has come to look upon as something of a convenience. If only he'd stuck to the acid and left the alkaline alone: Alka by day. Lines - of cocaine - by night. He spent his entire remaining trust fund on cocaine. He had found out it was the key to Melinda belinda's popularity. For the summer of 1971 Mot was very popular and had a lot of friends come to his apartment. By fall, the friends he had seemed to never come over any more. He figured it was just as well since he was now out of money and would have had nothing to give them when they asked him for "a little something to cheer them up. By the winter of '71 Mot had nothing. He didn't want to be an artist like the other acidheads. He liked to draw but he could never draw actual pictures of things, only geometric patterns and ordered shapes. A friend of his had said something to him - maybe, he pointed out, he would get pictures if he made music instead of trying to make pictures with coloured paint and paper. The summer flight into decadence divebombed fast, landing in a smudgy dark puddle of melted goop that actually felt like eiderdown pillows. Until the dope wore off. Mot met heroin (his future wife) for the first time when he started seeing (i.e. fucking) a girl named Lacewing (not his future wife.) Most of the time she was just called Lacey. She was a twenty year old prostitute with an apartment five blocks from the college he'd just been summarily ejected from. Mot fell in love with her room upon first visiting it. He did not know if he loved her; he suspected he did. The room, though - that was definitely love he felt for it. The walls were painted a very deep shade of purple that was almost black. They were festooned with origami snakes made from old calendar pages - becoming Lacey's "time rope" that she'd had for years and it showed. She hung all sorts of drawings of crustaceans and spiders and insects on the wall. They had faces speaking of righteous doom and the power and safety in numbers. She said they were the bugs that would evolve to intelligence after mankind became extinct. Lacey would trip on acid on the weekend but during the week would put on very suave, dashing fashionable attire and sell her body to rich convention-going gentlemen for half a thousand bucks a night. Most of this money went into heroin. It was an odd dynamic of recycling. Mot was depressed (again) and decided to try some of her dope. He figured it was just a new experience in the series of forbidden chemical treats and that everything that he'd ever heard about it must be as wrong as everything he'd ever been taught about other drugs. It was a logical error he has regretted ever since. They would shoot up on her bed under the orange canopy she'd made out of a discarded parachute. Just lying there holding hands until nodding off: it was so much simpler and cleaner than sex was. Mot wanted to fuck Lacey a lot, but was afraid if he did it would cause her to disappear like a soap bubble after you touch it. Lacey would talk about her and him being bugs that were frozen in amber and held fast and motionless for thousands of years in the trunk of a tree buried underground. Until morning and the algebra of need would awaken them.To this very day. And when Lacey went out one day and didn't come back... All dressed up and smiling like an elfin sorceress playing with flowers, she'd told him she was going to go score and would come back with enough for both of them. But there was no dope that night because there was no Lacey, and he'd gotten scared and then very, very sick. He's still sick now. Just in a different way. Here he is now in a mental ward after hours of sleep with his acid tripping dreams and now he's wide awake and about to filch opiate narcotics from the medical personnel. Gods, had he really sunk that low? Where was Lacey? He's been waiting all day, week, month, year for her. When was she coming home? 011013 ... unhinged he had almost forgot about the schizophrenic by the door until he had the needle in his arm, about to push the plunger and she started screaming. he turned in time to see the nurses rushing to encircle her and Nurse came back for her tray, the tattletale needle sticking out of his arm still full. "Oh Mot, now you know what this means. Stealing my opiates. This cannot go unpunished." the nurse pulled the still-full needle from his arm and dragged him up off the chair, leading him down the hallway to the room. he collapsed at the sight of the door. "That trick isn't going to work this time. in you go. i'll come by in three hours with your lunch." 011013 ... unhinged mot had been abandoned in there for almost a month. his ribs stuck out protruding and his beard was rather unkempt. when she opened the door he skittered to the farthest corner of the room. "ok mot. we think you have been punished enough. you can come out now, but only if you promise to keep your hands of what isn't prescribed to you. promise?" mot just looked up without a word in his mouth. 011112 ... Teenage Jesus Then, with the force of a freight train, he levitated right through the ceiling. Up, up, and away, into the sky, Mot flew swiftly. He hooked up with a flock of geese headed south. 011113 ... god they stopped around panama city for a stroll on the beach and a check of the local scene. all of the entertainment was geared towards alcohol addled spring-breakers. shit, they didn't even have mimes. mot and the flock bound off again in search of some real culture. 011114 ... Dafremen Which they found in beautiful.... Monte Carlo! That's right Mot and his flock stayed 6 nights and 7 days in beautiful Monte Carlo, Monaco on the French Riviera, where they were lavished with all of the amenities which a broke, schizophrenic, cello-playing, engineering angel and his flock of southbound geese could afford. But that's not all! Because while they were in Monaco, they cruised the French Riviera in style with their Brand New Fishing Boat!! The new Comanche 518DVX by Ranger is the ultimate expression of premium quality, innovation, and world-class performance. . .this is the legendary Ranger Comanche series. Tighten your cap, bury the throttle, and unleash a whole new dimension of Power On The Water! With up to 200 Horsepower at their disposal, Mot and his gaggle were able to ensure that a good time was had by all. The Comanche Series by Ranger. Ranger..."Still building legends...one at a time." Then the unthinkable happened... 011114 ... Teenage Jesus Goose #23: "LOOK OUT!!" Mot: "Huh?" But it was too late. There was a tremendous crash as the Comanche 518DVX ploughed into the side of Princess Shelly's yacht. Pricncess Shelly was from the tiny central European nation of Schmoland, and was unhurt in the accident. Mot and the Geese took to the skies moments before impact. Princess Shelly : "Oh my! ARE YOU OK?" Mot : "My Boat!!" 011115 ... god mot awoke sharply, nails marring the finish and digging into the ancient, parched wood of his beloved cello. his shaking hands errantly plucked a clumsy note as he convulsed with confused horror. 011209 ... jon "What's that?" A voice cut through the thick layers of Mot's protective shield. "I've heard that tune before. What is it?" Mot turned to see what sort of creature was invading his space. It wasn't a goose this time. It was a woman. 011209 ... jon Had he been playing? He couldn't remember playing anything. How long had he been in solitary? Who the hell was this woman? Was this reality or another chapter in his ongoing game of escape? H He couldn't answer the woman, of course, he had no idea what his fingers had been doing. He decided to do nothing. Better to wait. She would go away soon enough. The geese would be looking for him. 011209 ... Teenage Jesus "I'm Dr. Meade" she said, "and your name is Zachary." "Huh?" said Mot. 011211 ... oren "It's all right. No need to worry about anything," Dr. Meade said in a reassuring tone. She entered the room and began studying the drawings on his walls. Mot felt something move inside his stomach. It was the pang of memories. Why did everyone new in his life seem familiar? He remained silent as she stopped in front of a drawing of a flock of geese in flight. "It's taken me three years to find you, Zachary. I was beginning to lose hope." 011211 ... aaaardy Suddenly a name formed in his mind. Patricia. Patricia. Mot knew her first name, somehow. He wasn't ready to reveal this to her. His time in the hospital had taught him to be cautious with everyone. "I'm surprised to see so many drawings with birds flying. Are they ducks?" "Geese!" Mot couldn't stop himself. They were obviously geese. Anyone with half a brain would know the difference! Ducks? Ducks had never been so kind to him. "Oh ... yes. I suppose you're right. They are geese, aren't they..." Mot watched her turn to him. Her eyes locked onto his. "I've missed those amber eyes, Zachary." Inside Mot's head, there began a battle. Someone was trying to tear through the layers. It made him feel sick, and sweat broke out on his face. "I plan to take you out of here. There's a better facility for someone with your illnesses. I hope you'll be agreeable with this plan, Zack." 011211 ... Teenage Jesus "HONK!" "What the hell was that?" said Mot. "What? I didn't hear anything. Are you OK Zack?" "My name is Mot." "HONK! HONK!!" 011212 ... kx21 Apple & Orange from kx21? 020916 ... oldephebe Mot/Zac the engineer/angel/goose adept/cellist/phd in psych but lapsed into the black - looked over to the corner and saw Paggannini resplendant in all his arrogant disdain - a mocking leer contorting his already less than handsome face - i thought your interpretation was anemic almost rudimentary like a childs halting bowing and the intonation an offense an offense! There was this scarlet haze around him certainly it was the shadow of hell - of course - this is not your schizophrenia speaking - Mot - you are being shaped for something - all these phantsmagoric interludes are preparing you for - 030713 ... Dafremen It was at about this point that Mot remembered who Zack wa..who HE was. It wasn't his University of Pheonix sleeveless jersey or the french hook ankh that hung from his ear, but the snail shell spiral that his thoughts took, always inward, inward to nothing. To brain fart. That's why he had gotten her on the phone when the bus stopped over in East St. Louis. Collect call, "KEEP ME ON THE PHONE, DON'T BE SCARED, I NEED YOU, I TOOK ACID REMEMBER GATE 150 at 8:00PM" "What, what did you say Zack? Acid?! Jesus Zachariah! Gate 150? It's 6:30 right now Zack!" "Please, just keep me on the phone, my thoughts are spiralling away..." All he could see was him, and the geese and his name was Mot not Zack and there was a game show...a boat. No..not just a boat a Ranger Comanche 518DVX... 030713 ... oldephebe ... and all of these interludes and all of their vanities, all of their incongruities finally began to take this irrevocable toll upon Zack the mot who was a goose intuitive adept, the engineer who dabbled in cello but was seriously close to tapping out - the counselor said it was some variant of Holodeck induced psychosis - a flight from his life. And all his vaunted learning from that university and the ersatz Phd and all these tangants tied together was so much w h a t e v e r. And then one by one the dregs of his sanity or mind or being began to drop off - one by one like leaves dropping off to scatter - and then coalecse in their decay in some forlorn field of forgotten throe. He felt the red fire light of a soul a mind being undone and all these years not letting go all these wars within ripples the concentric circles of unbeing and what will his body remeber from all the marathon sessions of electric shock - clearly they'd crossed the threshold and fried his mind apart. And lo what's that dark spot floating on the surface of his encephalic soup? Well hmm there's something carcinogenic brewing in there eh? All he was saying from outside to himself - and will there be time to speak the words of redemption of competion? We are but one voice in a continuum of Zac and Mot one voice. You will see the pieties in this paradox, you will seethat all this fractured nonobjectivity will congeal..ha ha ha ha ha ha - and Zac the Mot the forlorn and forgotten felt as if he'd been hurled out of layrynthine chamber of Hell.. hello do not hang up keep me here on the line your my only tether to anything real God pleas don't hang up. Zack? Zack? 030713 ... oldephebe relentless inner critic: The word is labyrynthine. make a note of it oldephebe: Yeah 030713 ... Teenage Jesus Suddenly, a half thawed chicken caught him in the back of the neck. He wasn't sure how long he'd been out when he..what was that sound? "Great Thing! Those two are IN the house! Get up you stinking bluemondge! Pacey pacey! Chop chop! ..those lick-spittle wretches..." But it was too late. A hint of cologne; pornographic dischord... Is this the holodeck? I didn't write this; I've put on weight... 030806 ... "A New" Man An old story retold bears fruits anew. 090607 what's it to you? who go blather from