Jared Washine – Writings

 

 

Jared Daniel Washines

SEATTLE – Jared Daniel Washines, born November 24, 1974 at Ellensburg, WA, passed April 15, 2007 at the age of 32.

Education: Toppenish High School (1992), Transferred from Yakima Valley Community College to University of Washington (Seattle) where he earned a Bachelor’s Degree in Comparative History of Ideas (1998).

Employment: University of Washington Center on Human Development and Disability; Amazon.com Fraud Investigator; currently employed in food service  opening restaurants and marketing specialty gourmet food on-line.

Affiliation: Yakama Nation/Skokomish/Cree, Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints (member).

Direct Descendent of Chiefs: Meninock, Moses, Seattle (Sealth).

Grief is our greatest teacher. It opens up our heart, so that we dip into pockets of emotions and understanding that our fears and busy lives normally keep hidden.

Jared Washines went with the creator on a rainy Sunday morning. For those of us that knew Jared as a grandson, son, brother, uncle, cousin, nephew, or friend, we knew that Jared loved to walk in the rain. It is why he chose to live and work in Seattle, and we are comforted by the thought that it was a perfect day for him to begin this journey.

We acknowledge and accept that there is no tomorrow that will bring him back into our homes or our lives, but his teachings remain very much alive in the part of our hearts that jumped whenever he was near. His nieces and nephews expressed it best; when they saw him, they would shout, “Uncle Diddle is here!” and they would jump on him or try to catch him with the flat side of a toy sword. It is not an understatement to say that babies and young people were drawn to him, and his joy made him a source of light in many lives. However, the full power of Jared’s spirit generosity, and gentleness was felt by those that needed it most. While he was studying in Seattle, he worked with children with autism disorders at a special education school based on the University of Washington and at camps during the summer. His love of life was the undeniable force that helped him reach these children.

The day before he passed, he went for a run and afterward, his roommate heard him say, “Life is good. Life is good.” In later years, Jared was extremely dedicated to being the mirror that reflected life’s beauty and goodness. He had always been a talented musician. He could hear a song or piece and then play it on the piano. He often played in Seattle public venues and for family and friends and was developing his talent as a composer. Jared was also an avid and talented writer. He shared stories with family and friends, and before his passing, he had been writing his first novel. His family hopes to organize and complete his novel for publication, so that Jared’s passion for life can continue to live on in his works.

Our grief has opened us up, and we ask ourselves why he is gone. Maybe the answer comes from a reflection of how his life began. As an infant he faced a life-threatening illness. He was completely in God’s hands. His survival was a blessing, and his mother Stella knew that he had lived for a reason and cherished his life as a gift. Jared was fun, gentle, and loving. He touched the hearts of many people and taught us how to enjoy life, so that now we realize everyday of his 32 years was a blessing to us all.

He is survived by parents Archie and Stella Washines of Toppenish; brother Brandon (Amy) Washines of West Valley; sisters Tawaia (Louis) Alvarado of Fairchild Airforce Base, Emily Washines (Jon) of Ellensburg, and Elese Washines of Toppenish; his beloved nieces Alexa, Brittany, Carmen Jae, Isabella, and Quinn; his nephew Elijah Washines; girlfriend Eunice Chung of Bellvue; Uncles Clifford, Anthony, Ronn, Davis, and Arlen Washines, Nick Paul, and Tom Mosqueda; Aunts Harriet (Leon) Strom, Angie Phillips, Shirley Pinkham, Norma Jack, Deona Levno; paternal grandmother Hazel Watlamett; his extended family with many special cousins, and all his diverse friends in this country, Italy, France, and Germany. He has two namesakes Carmen Jae Alvarado (parents: Tawaia and Sgt. Louis Alvarado) and Sapahtma Jared Blackeagle (parents: Josiah and D’Lisa Pinkham).

He is preceded by grandparents Edward Washines, Lena M. Phillips, Bertha and Nick Mosqueda; uncle Jasper Washines; cousins Thomas Mosqueda Jr. and Ella Washines; great-grandmothers Stella Cree Wynaco and Elsie Cree Pinkham, Maggie Syyou (& her sons Joe Meninick, Leonard Tomaskin, Raymond Watlamett).

Arrangements are being made through Colonial Funeral Home of Toppenish, WA.

Dressing services will be held at Colonial Funeral Home on Tuesday April 17, 2007 at 2:00 PM. Overnight services will be held Tuesday and Wednesday evenings at the Toppenish Longhouse. A funeral procession will leave the Toppenish Longhouse at 7:00 AM on Thursday April 19, 2007 for interment at Satus Point Cemetery. Colonial Funeral Home is in charge of arrangements.

** I have collected as many of his writings as I could find and have archived them below, unedited.**

  • starter white girl

“this is mozart”
those were my first words to her.
but it wasn’t mozart; it was j.s. bach.

months later, after my stocks had doubled, i took her to berlin in the hot summer months that were nearly as merciless as the cold winter, east German months. we rented a Mercedes E Class and drove 130 mph to j.s. bach’s final resting place in Leipzig via the autobahn.
after we broke up, i went to berlin to consolidate my fears and griefs in the shadow of the gedachtniskirch.

“this is mozart”, i said to her.
“nah, this isn’t mozart”, she said. “it’s bach. his 3rd concerto”

“it sounds like mozarts requiem”, i said.

“that’s because mozart ripped his requiem from bach. he ripped everything. just like picasso”, she said.

i was in love.

she wasn’t beauty
or Pretty
or Laughter
or Hope
but she was this strange entity called, ‘infatuation’. a phenomenal woman that grips us in the solace of our embrace with something else. usually it’s another woman. for me it was booze.

from the Southern most coast of England. a coast that had enough endurance to fear both Hitler and the Romans, she came to me. with her posh accent and her ideas of a garden.
The English love their gardens. she came from a posh family that left nothing alone while i, in my own right, came from a people that left too much alone:

our dogs ran rampant, neither fed nor castrated–may the strongest breed and feed

our lawns were left unkept while hers were immaculately conceived as if christ himself were to embody the flora in her backyard

our cars were left to die on their deathbeds in our front yards, an act mimicked by front yards in reservations the world over. “what were you thinking, little car?”

she came to me in the first months of my success.

she wasn’t beauty
or Pretty
or Laughter
or Hope
but that was okay because she was my first white girl. my starter white girl. from which all other campaigns would errupt.

  • nurture Nature

the setting:

sitting in an Online Cafe. the peripheral chatter of another customer on her cell and an old man surfing gay porn mix with a crooning Patsy Cline to form the ambience. our Hero is RUSHED and his stomach complains loudly as he consumes his third (native) Americano…

—————–

for my fourth birthday, ma took me to “The Fog”/”The Fury” double feature. there’s a scene in The Fury where a carnival ride unhinges, sending a bunch of riders flying to their death. aftewards, she took me to the county fair where we rode the exact same ride in the movie, much to my dismay.

for my fourteenth birthday, my friends took me out to the railroad tracks where the six of us shared a 40 of Olde E and looked at dirty mags.

later that night, smelling the beer on my breath, ma threatened to enroll me in AA.

when i protested, she said i was “in denial”—proof positive that i was a raging alcoholic. i spent the next year going to once-a-month meetings with those same friends’ parents.

—————–
the setting:

another Americano. the barista has a tattoo on her arm: “FREE”. as we return, the old man’s gay porn has gotten more graphic. a black cock thrusts in and out of hairy man-ass as we take another caffeine shot. the old man alternates between the porn and his Yahoo! account where he’s composing an email to his granddaughter

  • a battle of prerequisites

i’d seen enough of it to know it was true.  scratch.  i’d seen enough of it to know how to articulate it was true.  but i couldn’t share it with any of the women folk.  it was one of those things that a lot women will never understand or accept.  like the idea that a “platonic” male friend who always asks her to dinner and offers 4am rides to the airport might harbor any secret desires.

“he’s like a brother” she would say.
“..who wouldn’t mind playing doctor behind uncle jimmy’s barn”, i would add.

but when you bring it up to the dudes, they’d say, ‘yeah right–muthafucka’s playin the friend-card.  takes balls and patience to play that card because it could be years before you land that fish.”

and that’s what dating is.
landing a big fish.
or at least one that’ll flop around in your bed for a night or two.

for a woman, i imagine it thus:
if they figure they got a minow on their hands.  someone they just wanna land because he’s the lesser of two evils (the other evil being, “solitude”), they’ll yank that fishing pole and bring that minow up to the shore and have their way with him while he’s lying there gasping for air in the shallows of her affection.  and when she’s done, she’ll toss him back into the dating pool for being too small.
but,
if they figure they got a big one hooked, they’ll give him line.
a lot of line.
as much as he needs just so long as he keeps the hook in his mouth.
can’t be doing the same trick as with the minow.  no way.  yank that rod and the line’ll snap and the big fish will swim lazily downstream for the next angler.

and how does one determine the size of a fish?
easy: prerequisites

and that’s what dating is.
a battle of prerequisites.
it’s like a game of battleship as they sit there on that first date:

man: “..then i took a month off to visit of my grandparents’ vineyards in Provence..”

woman: [hit!]

man: “..but i figure, ‘what’s the big deal? it’s just housework.’”

woman: [hit!]

man: “..and so after my years as a pastry chef, i decided to become a brain surgeon and that’s where i am today.”

woman: [you sunk my battleship!]

but it can go the other way too:

man: “..but i decided that if i really wanted to contribute to the Bush campaign, i should move in with my parents so i could syphon all my available funds to His success.”

woman: [splash!]

and for our part.  we play along with the game as often as we can because we realize that, without meeting these prerequisites, all hope is lost for us.  it’s really at least 50 percent of the reason most men do what they do today.  who the hell wants to sacrifice their soul in front of a computer monitor at a job they’re only marginally interested in if there’s no sugar at the end of the rainbow?

but, in the dating world, most women don’t realize that once men have these prerequisites, these genuine prerequisites, they’ve got a killer on their hands.  for one’s pastry chef/brain surgeon skills can’t be wasted on just one conquest.  not if the man’s young enough and hasn’t yet reached that musical-chairs time in his life when any seat will do once the music stops.

if he’s got the goods and hasn’t reached ‘that’ time in his life, the game changes and it’s the man’s turn to have the prerequisites:

does she have shelf-life or is she a perishable? (bonus points if the man is open to asians.  deduct points if he’s into beer drinking employees of Krispy Kreme)
*also taken into account (as every man does) is the woman’s mother–and perhaps unfairly so.  but by god there was not a surprised man on the planet when we got a good look at angelina jolie’s mom (r.i.p.).
*p.s.s. there are exceptions to this rule such as the offspring of demi moore/bruce willis’ failed marriage who, unluckily enough, seem to have gotten an unfair portion of their DNA from the groom

does she have maternal instincts?
*on the surface this would seem to be forethought towards starting a family when in fact it’s not.  not at first anyway.  every man needs to be taken care of in some capacity because, in essence, we can’t take care of ourselves.  not the way we’d like to.  show me a straight man that can take care of himself and i’ll show you a man whose standards of living are way too low.  dudes are pack animals.  most of us congregate with the other Lost Boys until we land in the ultimate pact called, “marriage”.  kinda like that scene in ‘Bambi’ when, one by one, they all fell in love.  all that beer drinkin and back slappin is only precursor to a time when we’ll start thumping our little, furry bunny feet for some cute thing who fills out her Juicy jeans perfectly.

is she smart?
*i love me a smart woman because intelligence is requirement for wit.  but this one can go both ways for some men are turned off by female intelligence.  however, i offer this: they’re all smart.  at least in an intuitive sort of way.
-as Gene Hackman put it in, Crimson Tide:  “I love high school girls.  They’re very intuitive, just like horses–dumb as fenceposts but they know all the boys wanna ride ‘em.”
this intuition plays a huge part in female competition as well (see, “landing a big fish” above).  even the most aloof one will take note of our previous relationships with Rain Man like precision.

man: “we’re supposed to meet them tonight for cocktails after dinner.  where do you want to eat?”
woman: “i don’t care.  something good.  money is no option.”
man: “you mean, ‘no object’.”
woman: “what?”
man: “you mean, ‘money is no object’.”
woman: “yeah, sure.”
man: “how about _____?”
woman: “didn’t you take an ex there?”
man: “um, yeah….for our senior prom.”

  • Phenomenal Indin

Pretty Indins wonder where my secret lies
I’m not astute or built to suit a fashion model’s eyes
But when I start to tell them
They think I’m telling lies.
I say
It’s in the reach of my arms
The warm, strong embrace
The stride of my steps
The drunk, faulted Grace.
I’m an Indin
Phenomenally
Phenomenal Indin
That’s me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please
And understand
The women stand or
Fall down to their knees
Then they swarm around me
A hive of honey bees.
I say
It’s the fire in my eyes
The slight, crooked teeth
The conquered and wise
and soft Underneath.
I’m an Indin
Phenomenally
Phenomenal Indin
That’s me.

Now you understand
Just why my head’s not bowed
I don’t shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud
When you see me fancy dancing
It ought to make you proud.
I say
It’s the click of my heels
the strong, stoic glare
the Grand Entry virtues
and sweet Last Call errors
‘Cause I’m an Indin
Phenomenally
Phenomenal Indin
That’s me.

  • “how i made my millions”

i blew my last remaining dollars on a Vegas stripper named, “Destiny”. it was the perfect end to a perfectly disgusting weekend.

i got nothing against titty bars but there’s something obtusely offensive about paying someone to almost fuck you in a state with legalized prostitution.

earlier at the roulette table, i’d placed what was left of my personal wealth on “red” and lost repeatedly. 8 thousand dollars and 7 gin ‘n tonics later, i sat, dejected and depressed with 60 bucks left to my name.

at the age of twenty-nine, i’d gone from dirt poor reservation housing to dirt poor student housing to a dot com bubble and back again.

if the bubble hadn’t burst, i would’ve went on that trajectory forever. there are functional drunks with hardy livers, trustworthy hearts, and benign demons. i am not one of them.

something about allowing your vices to slowly erode your spirit just completely disways me from becoming one of those people that hang out every night at happy hour and then go home around midnight to sleep it off before work the next morning. my favorite bit was to arrive sometime after midnight and speed drink until the Calvary of Last Call saved us all from ourselves.

after i found out about my heart, i stopped drinking cold turkey. i felt bamboozled that i’d never get to try things like viagra and ‘E’. and just like those old gangster movies where the death of a prominent mob boss creates a vaccuum of power, i was left with idle hands.

the devil hit me hard and with little warning. i’d gone to a casino on a fluke and ended up winning a couple thousand dollars. the first one’s always free.

thankfully, the altricial nature of wisdom allows only retrospective lessons. mama warned me about my addictive nature in the early days. i figured she just wanted me to stop playing Nintendo all night long so she and papa could make love upstairs without anyone hearing.

like many parents, they began calling each other “mom” and “dad”, even when speaking directly to each other. i thought then, as i do now, that there’s something vastly disturbing about playing ‘just the tip’ with someone you call, “mom”. apparently it didn’t bother my parents.

i was broke and drunk and sitting at a roulette table in vegas. the plane ticket said, “7am”, so i could sleep off the rest of my drunk in the terminal and allow the flight announcement to play the role of alarm clock.

but i couldn’t go back to the airport. there were slot machines in the terminal and coming home with nothing was a hell of a lot more appealing to my vice than playing it “safe” with my remaining sixty bucks–an ironic rationale for an unemployed guy who just blew his rent money.

but i needed sleep. and something about sitting in the airport playing nickel slots with the blue hairs at 4am, while waiting for the Deliverance of poverty and flight, didn’t flatter me.

that’s where Destiny came in.

“though He slay me
yet will I trust in Him.”

  • being rational being (part I)

It started the night before, as all great things do. Cold and bleery, we walked through the post-thanksgiving day throngs which, ironically, are only unmanageable if you live on the lesser populated Eastside. He..d just gotten off of work and I..d just gotten out of my third interview of the week (my own Casey-at-Bat routine).

He asked me, non-chalantly, what I’d eaten for thanksgiving and I responded, non-chalantly, “same thing we eat every year: pilgrims.”

We celebrated our meeting and subsequent departure with a few beers. Not being the social type a simple, ..see you later.., generally meant anywhere from a few months to a few years. Social erosion had long since rid me of the runts of the litter and the only ones I was left with were the few, the proud, the ones willing to deal with my lengthy periods of congenial indifference broken, intermittantly, by peaks of boozing and rowdiness.

But it was more sedate this time. Partly because my errant anti-social behaviour was beginning wear thin on him but mostly because I had court at 9am on the Eastside (aka ..Mordor..) the next morning. That a large cloud of cold, winter badness had formed in the skies of that far-off-land-just-acrosss-the-bridge was only fitting.

As it was, we parted ways early.

So early, in fact, that the liquor stores were still open. It was blazing cold and the only remedy, in my mind, was a shot of Whiskey to heat my vulnerable innards. I..ve long lived with the fact that humans are not Rational Beings so much as we..re Rationalizing Beings. This is never so true as when one is half shot. I purchased a bottle of Jack Daniels with a pretty brown bag for the ride home.

On nights like these, I..ve always been a fan of the Last Supper ideal. Anytime one is headed for the gallows, they should seek the best possible meal befitting the occasion. In my case, this meant a whole Alaskan King Crab.

The bus ride home was not easy. I reeked of booze and the seafood in my lap must not have given off the best smell. Luckily for me, this is not a cardinal sin on any public transit system in the country and I went relatively unnoticed..especially after a poo-smelling vagrant boarded the bus. He sat (luckily) a few rows in front of me and created such a stink that another vagrant, equipped with plastic Safeway grocery bag over his head, confronted him outright.

..What..s that smell?..

..And when aforementioned poo-offender didn..t respond.

..I said, what..s that smell?! It smells like a goddamn barn in here and I know it didn..t smell like that when I got on!.. He adjusted his plastic headpiece for emphasis.

I relaxed and enjoyed the ride.

A King Crab is an odd choice for a last meal. Especially for a man who never cooks meat. But, in the grocery store, I rationalized the choice; I had a stove and opposable thumbs so, how hard could it be?

But the sons of bitches are hard. Not hard to cook, mind you. They usually come pre-cooked. But really hard to eat. Especially after you..ve downed half a bottle of Jack. The spiny, long legs serve their revenge on unsuspecting revelers of their flesh. The post-mortem revenge was somewhat romantic and I couldn..t help but toast the bastard as I consumed him, tearing my hands apart in the process. Opposable thumbs, it would seem, are not compensation enough for a lack of shell or nut crackers.

In as much as I was unable to consume the entire crab, I passed out cuddling the whiskey remedy ensconsed tightly in my grip. Not the best bouteille (pronounced, “boo’tay”) to pass out with but it would do in a fix. I came to some six hours later, ready to battle the legal system with a furious indigenous indignation.

A veteran of the legal system, my Indian timing took over where my cowed sense of irreverance had left off and I walked into the courtroom a full hour after the session had started

A fat man in a suit was arguing, fairly incompetently, a marijuana case for a complacent defendant who didn..t have the respect to dress up beyond wearing his best down jacket and baggy Dickies. The implications were obvious and if I were the judge, god forbid, I would..ve thrown the defendant’s ass in the slammer for intent to sale. But, as it was, the charges were only for possession and the dope dealer..s lawyer was trying to rationalize both his client..s way out as well as his own outrageous fees that had, undoubtedly, been paid in cash.

I searched the courtroom for my public defender but he was nowhere to be seen. Probably in one of the special lawyer-client rooms talking another down-and-outer into pleading guilty so he didn’t have waste time on the case any more.

It was just as well; courtrooms make for amazing entertainment and one can..t help but be enthralled with the proceedings of all the cases before you. That and I was still hammered. There..s something vastly appealing about showing up to court still drunk from the night before..

When the Angel of Death
comes down after you
can you smile and say
that you have been true?

Hank Sr., “Angel of Death”

  • still in hand

Given the deprecatory nature of our relationship, I wasn’t surprised to be taking the trip to Liguria alone. It was meant to be a cooling relaxation, a reprieve from the drinking and partying. I’d been in Paris almost three weeks without having seen anything other than the moon and Picasso Museum. I’d gone for the food and stayed for the booze.

It was six or seven in the evening and I struggled to right myself over the cobbled streets like a bike with a bad wheel. Earlier, I’d sat in the waters off the beach at Monterosso and sipped at a bottle of barolo half-submerged in the sea against the rocks. Nude grannies and residual Americans sunbathed in the October sun without their tops on.

I sat with my back to the rocks as the waves pushed against me. My back pounded against the rocks in salty corporal mortification.

I clutched at the rock on which I was perched so as not to get pulled out. Equally, I clutched the bottle and struggled to keep my thumb over the opening so as to limit the contamination the sea water would bring. I took another drink. It was terrible and salty. Like cooking wine, I thought.

Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I recounted the tale of how cooking wine came about. Chefs had regular wine but kept drinking it before they could use it in their dishes and so the only wine allowed in the kitchens were wines that were heavily salted so as to hinder direct consumption.

In tangential evolution, my thoughts wandered to the story of some Cheyenne Indians on a distant reservation who made, what they referred to as, ..Cheyenne Champagne… They took a can of hairspray, pierced it, and mixed it with a gallon of water for consumption. The alcohol content alone was enough to get the five of them drunk. Drunks will do anything to get their fix and I decided, as I sat there in the sea against the rocks with the bottle, that the story of the cooking wine must be bullshit.

My thoughts towards V had held themselves in check to a surprising degree until I reach the city of Genoa.

Against my better judgement, I’d had another gin ‘n tonic on the train. The rocking made it impossible to hold myself and I thanked the gods, allah, and santa claus when we pulled to a stop.

It was too late for the aquarium and for this, I was genuinely disappointed. The Genoans have the second largest aquarium in the world and, given my failed marine biology background, I would’ve loved to wander through that attraction and take in the sites. As it was, my dip in the Mediterranean at Monterosso had cost me the pleasure.

I wandered down the via Sottoripa and came upon a small but busy restaurant. In the window, a large swordfish hung surrounded by a sea of prawns and shellfish under a sign that read, “Da Vittorio”. Looks almost like an aquarium, I thought as I stepped inside.

It was hot, much too stuffy but I was hungry and tired and needed to rest myself. I hadn’t yet secured a train ticket back or a place to stay but had the devil-be-damned attitude that can arise from too much drink. I greeted the host in Spanish in case there were any Americans around.

The booze churned once more in my stomach and I asked for the bathroom in Italian.

“Sinistra”, he replied as he set the menu down on the table.
.”Merci”, I responded.

It occurred to me, as I pushed the door open carelessly, that I’d not eaten since the previous day. The door swung violently and almost knocked over a small boy who was walking towards the sink.

“Scuza”, I said.

“Bitte”, he responded. He was small and blond, maybe four years old.

A window was open and the cool air from the sea blew in and hit my nostrils, making me nauseous. Outside, I could see the top of a flagpole with two flags on it. I wrinkled my brow and noticed the standard Italian flag but, also, there was a flag that looked exactly like the English flag. Years later, I would find that England, and the city of London in particular, had adopted the flag of Genoa in 1190 to benefit from the protection of the powerful Genoese fleet in the Mediterranean. But as it was, I felt cheated and taunted by the past.

“What happened there?” V asked. We lay, prostrate, on the sheets that smelled too much of us as the busy streets of the Quartier Latin came to life in the night beyond the window. I looked toward the balcony. Every apartment in the Latin Quarter seemed to have a wrought iron balcony.

“What happened here?” she repeated. She traced the scar on my abdomen, just under my right ribcage with her finger.

The incision had been made in my third week of life. As I struggled free from the womb, I began my acsetic ways early, repenting and fasting for sins I’d yet to commit. I couldn’t take any food. Given the quality of the doctors at the free clinics on the reservations in my early days, it wasn’t surprising that it took them almost three days to accurately diagnose my condition. By that time, I was three days without food which, I hear, is not good for a newborn.

“Knife fight”, I responded.

I lay there on the bed with my mother weeping over me and barely enough strength to move or cry. By that time, what should’ve been a routine operation, became a massive concern for the attending surgeon and nurses. Given the delay at proper diagnosis, I was too weak for surgery.

“Really?” she asked in an unbelieving tone. The proper, British, accent that had, at first tortured me into infatuation, went unnoticed.

The anesthesiologist walked down the hall in her frumpy white shoes towards the room with the weeping Indian woman and her newborn son. She walked in and spoke a few words with my mother and then approached my crib which was really a plastic bin like the kind they put newborns in.

“How are you doing tonight?” she asked me.

I cooed with my remaining strength. My mother wiped her eyes and chuckled lightly. She hasn’t worried about me since.

“Oh I think he’ll be okay”, the anesthesiologist said.

“No, what really happened?” V asked. She removed her naked leg from atop my thigh and was resting on her elbow above me now.

“Pyloromyotomy”, I responded.

“Pyloromyotomy”, I repeated aloud as I finished at the urinal. I flushed with my elbow and turned away from the window with the flag of Italy and Genoa.

As I walked to the sink, the little German was still there. He was hanging over the counter and his legs swung freely below him. He was trying to reach the faucet to turn it off and was having a devil of a time trying to accomplish the task. I reached over and turned it off for him. At which point, he jumped down from the counter and faced up to me, squarely.

“Grazie”, he said.

“Bitte”, I responded.

He smiled and became a kid again. He turned briefly to the towel dispenser, which was also out of reach. He sighed in frustration as he wiped his hands on his pants and hastily pulled the door open.

“What’s a Pyloro..”, she paused.

“Pyloromytomy”, I said.

“What is that?”

“When I was little, I had a problem with my stomach. It tightened up and wouldn’t let anything pass. The mortality rate of a pyloric stenosis is generally around a fraction of a fraction of a percent. But I almost died.”

“Are the doctors that dodgy on the Reservation?”

“They were then at least. I think they’re better now. Do we have any more wine?”

The waiter approached with the bottle of wine and promptly opened it. I had a moment of lapse and my facade of sobriety left; I rudely gestured him to pour the entire glass.

With the drink, I became lost. My thoughts jumped from V to the aquarium to my aching back with no anchor to hold me steady. The young boy waved in my direction and yelled.

“Ciao!” he yelled for a second time, pausing as if to emphasize that he wasn’t leaving without a response. His mother leaned down and pulled gently at his coat but he refused to budge.

I lifted my glass and responded, “Tschuess!”

He smiled and turned on a pivot with the efficiency of a military officer. The mother smiled briefly at me before following her min-general out the door.

As I left the restaurant, the door closed swifty behind and the lights in the window were dimmed. The swordfish was gone as were the prawns and the lobsters and the shell fish. The aquarium was apparently closed.

I walked down the street towards the flagpole I’d viewed from the bathroom window. A couple walked past me and I screamed at them, “Happy Cristoforo Colombo Day!”

I’m the reason people hate Americans.

The flagpole stood in defiance of my past with the flags themselves waving bravely high above me. The wind had increased coming inward from the sea and swirled around the piazza so that it flanked me and coerced me toward the pole. I walked to the flag and pushed it as if I were Ira Hayes at Iwo Jima..attemting to raze the flag.

An old man shuffled past me and stared without fear.

“Che ora e?” I asked.

“Undici”

Fuck, I missed that last train. My things were still in a small room in Vernazza that smelled of sand and damp wood.

I picked myslef up from the stones and wandered down to the beach. I needed to find a secluded place to sleep in the birthplace of the man who discovered the land of my ancestors.

dep’re’ca’to’ry.. [dep-ri-kuh-tawr-ee, -tohr-ee]

1. of the nature of or expressing disapproval, protest, or depreciation.
2. apologetic; making apology.

  • holiday

in my fifth year i sat on the small table in the living room that doubled as the kids’ table at thanksgiving and watched my dad watch the seahawks. the pooh-bear costume was hot but i refused to take it off. my silent protest. my civil disobedience that went as unnoticed as the yearly jack-o’-lanterns.

we bought them a day or two before halloween, carved them, and let them sit through the winter. when the snow finally thawed, there were traces of them in ambiguously colored markings on the porch.

this was the year after my dad put up the christmas lights. i know the exact year because there was only one. unsuspecting visitors would comment on our initiative until they realized that the early November christmas lights were the same ones from the year previous.

when the time came to plug them in, they lit up like the missing teeth of our neighbor. each year, more and more were missing until my baby sister asked how santa would find us. i explained succinctly that santa didn’t use lights. he looked, first, for the dreams of small children that floated above houses like bonfires.

i found our neighbor that same winter. he’d passed out in his car which was parked, inexplicably, on our front lawn. he stared, lifelessly, at me through the front window. his teeth were all but gone and he had a frozen smile like a jack ‘o lantern. twisted and dissolved and ambiguously colored. we removed the lights that same year.

i sat on the small table in the living room that doubled as the kids table at thanksgiving and watched my dad watch the seahawks. during commercials, i non-chalantly shook my trick-or-treat bag in protest. my dad shifted in his lazy-boy. his feet were crossed and his chin rest on his hand, fingers splayed angrily across his cheek.

the seahawks beat the broncos on a blocked field goal and my dad rolled around the floor like a puppy, pausing to stare at the replay on all fours. the unexpected break in stoicism relieved me of my indignation. we strolled out of the house together. hand in hand past the jack o’ lanterns and christmas lights to the windy, Fall night filled with candy..

no, no, no

“no way, man.  not in a million years.  not to diss on you of course”

what are you talkin about?–i asked.

“bitch is fuckin psycho”, he said.  he took a drag to exclamate his point.

you say that like it’s a bad thing–i responded

“what?  that shit doesn’t bother you?  don’t tell me it doesn’t bother you.  fuck that”

the psycho ones are better in the sack.  and they’re funner–i said.

i shifted slightly.  the wrought iron chair made waffles in my ass and, if i’m gonna have welts on my rear, i want some hot women in black leather standing behind me.

he chuckled and shook his head, “what do you do when they start freakin out–getting all jealous-stalker and shit?”

you get a new one–i said.  the sun turned and was behind a cloud. it was cold again.  a murder of crows sat in a leafless tree near the cafe.

“you get a new one”, he parrotted.

yeah–i responded.  i’ve always been a fan of re’psycho’ing.

he chuckled lightly and took another sip of his coffee which was spiked heavily with booze.

“you’re fuckin wrong, man.”

we sat for a bit longer.  a large truck passed and the exhaust filled my nostrils with the smell of the city.  the murder crows fled and we finished our drinks before continuing our separate days.

in my last words

to my last lover

before i prowled the streets

and found another…

-fuckerpants

  • situated in a valley in the shadow of a mountain my ancestors used as a calendar

in the mid sports dusk, with a dirty white shirt and a basketball too large under my arms, i swatted at a mosquito and watched my older cousin, Lee, play with black cat fireworks on the 3rd of July.

Lee was always careless and prone to throwing lit roman candles at his friends who carried blankets of black cats like pancho villa. wrong ethnicity i would’ve told them if i were old enough to know what ‘ethnicity’ or ‘pancho villa’ was.

as it was, i stood and watched Lee move around with the confidence of a sixteen year old non-virgin. he was an alpha-male who always surrounded himself with the shy kids. maybe that’s why i was allowed to tag along.

in our tribe, it’s rude to say the name of the deceased and so i’ve capitalized his name here.

a busty 15 yr. old, sera, quickly threw her black cats to the ground as Lee shot a roman candle at her. sera was one of Lee’s best friends and i knew they didn’t kiss even though i was only seven. even at that age, it would’ve been strange to see sera with a boy romantically. sera taught me how to throw a football and shoot a basketball. one summer, i caught sera in the backseat of a car looking at her dad’s playboys. this was where i learned the word, ‘vagina’.

they stood out on the lawn of my parent’s place for hours and, when it was time for Lee to go, it was time for the entire group to disband. pack animals are nothing without their leader. Lee’s mom, my auntie, came out and gave me a big hug and i could smell the cig smoke in her bossoms. she had that scratchy voice that would’ve been sexy a decade earlier.

“Lee!”, she yelled.

Lee climbed into the passenger side of the large trail wagon. a pow-wow van, we called it. the type of vehicle that had been to montana six or seven times and arizona at least once. the van with the sliding door that broke his thumb one night when were all going to see star wars for the umpteenth time–it was *the* rez babysitter in the late seventies. every kid remembers seeing it twice in a row while their parents went off to who knows where.

we had to bypass star wars that night for the emergency room. i don’t know who was more saddened by this, Lee or his mom.

after Lee dropped out, i seldom saw him ‘cept for the occasional pre-christmas gathering when he dressed up like santa clause and came down to the local church to pass out presents to the kids who wouldn’t get anything the following morning. everybody sat on his lap and smelled the booze on his breath and didn’t mind or seem to mind except for me. i was too old for santa clause.

the summer before my senior year in high school, i saw Lee for the last time. he was sitting with friends in front of the local 7-11–the watering hole where predator and prey, alike congregated. he looked smaller and wasn’t so intimidating anymore. fortunately, none of his friends had grown in stature or intellect, so the pack remained the same.

‘whaddup, j?’ he asked.

‘whaddup, lee? whaddup, marcus? floyd?’

‘juss hangin out cuz. tryin to get some money or a ride home. still staying out in the fuckin sticks near brownstown.’

‘out near all them taverns?’ i asked.

‘yeah, cuz. the same.’

‘lee, that place is fuckin broke. only hicks and wetbacks out there, man. whatchu doin out there?’ i could talk like this now because i was bigger and stronger and i wasn’t a drunk.

sensing his alpha male’ness shrinking, he suddenly became cowed and shrugged it off, ‘your auntie kicked me out’.

and that’s how he put it. not ‘mom’. not ‘sheila’. but ‘your auntie’. and that’s when i knew he was done.

‘a’ight then, lee, take it easy’, i said with a hug. ‘marcus. floyd.’

and i turned to walk away towards the park with the basketball under my arm. i was normally horrified to get the dirty ball anywhere near my white T but i didn’t mind this time.

‘hey cuz’, lee asked.

i turned.

‘got any change on you, bro?’

‘spent it all on the big gulp, cuz’, i responded.

‘that’s alright, j. tell your mom i said “hi”‘.

he sat there on the park bench near his friends in the hot sun on the quiet rez with only the sound of the occasional low rider and its bass as soundtrack.

i gave him the head nod. the universal one that means both hello and goodbye.

“the sirens are snaking
their way up the hill.
it’s last call somewhere in the world.”

  • never me

i’m drinking bud light of all fuckin things

it’s gotten posh too posh and i’m Hobbes sittin in the lap of Suzy askin “what?” as the Calvins of the world rant and yell, “what the hell are you doing?”

don’t worry, i won’t be long, i reply.
don’t worry, i won’t belong.

i’d never considered Hendrix a great singer until i heard the demo he did in his living room of “angel”. props, brotha. all the props in the world. the 27 club is an honour bestowed on few but i’m not in the least bit sad that i’m four years past the criteria. there’s still christ. and after that john lennon. and after that still, gandhi.

i sit here consuming bud light and some korean treat i don’t know the name of. i’m looking for stories:

there’s the story of cheelee. in alaska. who killed a kid in shop class with a hammer and then went downhill from there. last i heard, he mailed a bomb made in jail to one of the witnesses.

there’s the story of V whom i waited for at the Gare du Nord. we lived (briefly) in the Quartier Latin and she was the only woman i cheated on relentlessly. she was coming with a friend. a male friend. and my demons were coming home to roost as i projected my own infidelities onto her. i was young and in a rage and left for Charles de Gaulle before they arrived. it was, and is, the biggest regret of my life.

or there’s the happy one. in paris. bruno, whom i’d gotten to know only peripherally at a local watering hole. by chance, i was invited to his house for dinner. from the get go, i could tell who wore the pants in that family of two. his wife constantly nagged him and he, eroded after years of abuse, caved every time. we ate and were happy viscerally until the match. his team, “Lyons”, was paired up against a powerhouse in the Champions League. his team won and he was so overjoyed that he began rolling around on the floor like a dog. when his wife admonished him, he jumped up and gave her a big kiss on the mouth. she was stunned. i left before everything returned to normal. i wanted to keep Bruno just like that. a winner, unbeaten by life or wife.

  • st. g3ronimo

feb. 2nd, 1989 journal entry, 4th period english “today is the feast of st. blaze. i think catholics are the biggest wannabe indins because they have more feasts than the yakamas. st. blaze died hundreds of years ago because he was a bishop in a church that the romans didn’t like. they took his skin off and then his head followed. i looked him up in the library and didn’t even eat lunch today which was okay because i got to talk to ms. D who is my French teacher. i gave her a card which, secretly, was supposed to be like a valentine’s day card but i disguised it by saying, “happy st. blaze day”. she was touched. her class is the only one i do homework for. we looked up st. blaze together. if she was my age and if i had a license i would’ve asked her out. her perfume killed me. we found the book about st. blaze on the top shelf and i let her get it. i feel like a pervert for looking. here it is, she said. not st. blaze but “st. blaisse”. an armenian bishop who was filletted and beheaded. what did he do, i asked. apparently he saved a kid from choking, she replied. and? and nothing. it doesn’t say anything else, she said. that’s it? he saved a kid from choking and died a horrible death and they give him a fuckin holiday? i thought. oh, i answered. he’s the patron saint of throats, she said. thanks for the card by the way. she made a crucifix sign on my throat and then walked away smiling. i’ve been on a cloud all day.”

  • the gift horse

how long did it last? not long i think. we both knew it was coming. like a train wreck or gravity. falling at -9.8 meters per second towards one another until fate or worldly friction caused us to reach terminal velocity. at which point i would break away. i always break away. i may be a faller but i always die alone. like a cat or sylvia plath. put a skydiving target on the earth and i’ll land in an uninhabited swamp three miles away when my chute doesn’t open. the next weekend we sat like an old married couple on the couch and watched in silence as 60 Minutes showed images of cars crashing into each other at the bottom of an icy hill in a far-away town. later, the local news showed images of seattleites pull to the side of a flat, barren, highway after an inch of snow fell but didn’t stick. we chuckled and shared the last stick of double-mint gum. she tore it in half and placed the larger piece on my tongue with her thumb. how long was the courtship? not long I think. we were at once a unified continent and pangea floating away from itself. given our differing schedules, the courtship was perfumed in absence. it was difficult to resist or even slow down. How long would it last? It was the furthest thing from our minds that night. It was the furthest thing from my mind. her leg fell against me as we sat on Iago. the piano bench. my piano bench. i was trying to show her how to play a few notes from the moonlight sonata which was really just an excuse to sit close enough to feel her heat against mine. i felt the weight of her leg. from the single touch of an unearned lover, one can extrapolate a whole series of physical experiences. i could feel the weight of her head against my arm as we awoke, slightly hungover on a rainy sunday morning. i could feel the length of her body against mine as we spooned on the couch. and i could feel the indifferent familiarity after months or weeks of fucking when we’d shower or hold hands in an elevator without so much as a twinge of excitement. but as it was, we hadn’t even kissed. the heat of her leg was maddening and lay heavier against my own, inviting my Trojan Horse inside her city walls. the door closed. she grabbed my hand and pulled me closer to her. pulled me inside her. this communion. I let weeks pass before I unleashed my army into the peaceful, sleeping hours of our romance and razed her happy world to the ground.

  • Cassasseca

the tyranny of the moment was not the prosecutor with her fuck-me pumps and incredibly low-cut blouse. nor was it the judge in black who sat appropriately above the courtroom and cracked jokes nonchalantly while laying down life-altering sentences. the tyranny of the moment was not the eery S&M vibe or the crackdealers sitting in the pew behind me talking legalize better than their own lawyer because they’d been through the system so many times. what i noticed most was the street musician whose turn it was to get flagellated by the system. she sat, slouched and indifferent, as two lawyers politely argued the merits of her future. it was like being young again and getting whipped. you watch your brother and sister go before you and learn, at the tender age of five, that the anticipation is always worse than the pain itself. always better to go first. always better to never see it coming. but then, that would’ve taken away from my masochistic experience of helplessness. the next time i go in, i’m gonna wear black leather panties just to conform. this street musician. that street musician. i met her on a tuesday at the backdoor ultra lounge. ironic name given most of the clientele that night were gay and bi women pumpin to the beats of mc queen lucky. those were the days. we spoke in spanish i saw her years later, playing in the street. it was fucking beautiful. i bought two of her cd’s wrapped in brown paper bags with hand-written titles in crayon and magic marker. they still have a frequent rotation on my iTunes. she sat, anonymous. one of a many who would be processed by the assembly line of justice that day. i wonder if she knew she had a fan. an admirer. someone who was touched by her work. she bled her heart through her music and i found the hemorraging to be deliciously intoxicating. she was a veteran of the system. she walked out before her public defender even had a chance to wrap things up. she grabbed her girlfriend and walked out maybe it was better that way. and that’s what i hope. to do my thing and have one anonymous fan who never claps at the end of my encore but cuddles up next to the fruits of my ambitions and downfalls in the sleeping hours of the night reserved for lovers and the dying. “city of seattle versus jared washines” they mispronounced my last name again. ironic given that it was assigned by The Man in 1855 after our tribe signed the treaty. i guess “Cassasseca” was not christian enough. my eventual children will carry that name. me too i think. we’ll change it in vegas together, her and i. as we struggle to hold the pen straight from all the booze and pills. the judge asked me if it was pronounced correctly and i nodded, knowing it didn’t matter in the least. “christ, you know it ain’t easy. you know how hard it can be. the way things are going, they’re gonna crucify me.” -john lennon

  • snitches get stitches

the kids strolled in pensive and slow under a banner that read “Griffindor”, i struggled to remember the name of the song that was playing faintly in the background. it was Nina Simone. hardly birthday music for an eight year old girl but the festivities had just begun and the guests had barely started filing in. the tip of one’s tongue. that’s the worst place and the best place for a song. like the edge of one’s heart is both the worst and the best place for a lover. it was a harry potter themed party. quite elaborate really. i give props to the parents who did it all on their own. there was potter trivia and little plastic brooms with potter’s three previous releases projecting on two stripped walls. what was i doing there again? i’d only read the first potter on a train in europe because i just couldn’t be bothered with the amazing Swiss countryside. i never forgave potter for that (my) oversight. for the main event, they began hoisting up what appeared to be an effigy of a yellow humpty-dumpty with a pair wings at it’s side. “okay everyone, now we’re going to play Whack the Snitch!” yelled the host. “…start the line over here and then go around..” wait. what? whack the snitch? if i’d had more harry potter knowledge, it wouldn’t have been nearly as disturbing as it was. what made it even worse was the blatant amount of enthusiasm in the kids’ faces as they jockeyed for position in line to break open the pinata ratfink. it’s times like these that i look for my winner. my horse. vegas had 3 to 1 odds on the fat kid in the corner with too much gel in his hair. put a gold necklace on him and he could’ve played a young Tony Soprano. but i picked the third girl in line. she had that know-it all look. like the kind of kid that’s not used to being wrong. the kind that’s not used to losing. it was neither. the second kid broke the pinata open and it hemorraged candy even before my horse had a chance to run. in my head i imagined the call from my bookie. “pay up or i start with the thumbs” “..and then we’ll string you up for the kids!”

  • Almost

in that almost day before that almost night, Ma crept away and i almost died. the doctor said i wouldna be right. he said i’d be sick and dim as the night in that almost day before that almost night, Ma went to the clinic to do almost right. in the waiting room waiting for dr. doom to do what was needed and do it real soon. but then, with a skip, and a hop, and a bounce, she did what Heart said but couldn’t pronounce. she took up her baby still deep in her womb and rushed out the hospital and left that damn room. so here is fp so almost and done so almost accomplished and almost someone.

  • Salvation

Well-equipped and forlorn I, not always torn, begat surrogate expedition. Well, I’ll tell you now I’ll make it somehow. I’ll tear at it with repetitiion. But tattered and born of Immaculate whore were ideas we already knew. But still and yet wondered when David he pondered the face of the dragon He slew. Here comes the cavalry. Here comes our Calvary.

  • naked

with absence of trust my love for you grows. i am the emperor and you’re my new clothes~

  • Indian Summer

in that obtuse pergatory between the time i graduated from high school and the time i left college, i dated audrey cleoparty with a belligerant indifference. she was a girl chosen, not because she had any outstanding qualities, but because she didn’t seem to mind that i was leaving. it wasn’t until later that i realized she was hoping to change my mind before the leaves turned grey and dark and the cold, harsh, depressing reservation winters accosted the small town of middlesborough. those winters were so harsh that livestock were lost. indians, too, were lost. people to passed out in cars after partying too late into those early hours that are reserved mainly for lovers and the dying and party’s at Popcorn’s house out in the sticks. the elderly were also driven off the road like bison by the fog that fell like a smallpox-infected blanket over the icey, unkept roads. one year, a tribal policeman succumbed to this opression. but now, it was summer. the snows had not yet cemented the town and everyone was out and about. you could always find a basketball game at the park and you could always find an audrey on the benches outside the convenience store on a lazy afternoon when nobody noticed the failing light of the afternoon sun as it made brilliant spectacles of blue and pink hues in the sky over the nearby mountain range. sucking down a 64 oz. soda and eating a hot dog, audrey’s attrocious habits would one day catch up with her as the Rez did to everybody eventually. but, for now, she was little and cute and seventeen years old and her habits had added the pounds in all the right places—a condition my brothers at the basketball court referred to as “ripe fruit”. like all fruit, it eventually spoiled on the vine and that’s when you picked it and had four or five kids and six or seven dogs and lived in a depressed Project Housing Development, which is an oxymoron i, to this day, can’t get over. if one was lucky enough, the spoiled fruit eventually turned into wine and that’s when it became a Grandma–the most feared and matriarchal of the reservation hierarchy. everyone had a Mom’s-mom but not every Mom’s-mom was a grandma. And so it was in that summer shortly before my nineteenth birthday that i began seeing audrey cleoparty whom, it was rumored, was the cousin of my second aunt’s niece. i’ve come to realize that this is taboo in normal society but on the reservation, where eveyone is related, it’s great news because it means you’re not first or even second cousins. everyone has horror stories about a friend of their classmate’s who met at pow-wow only to find themselves attending the same grandma’s funeral. audrey was only seventeen and entering her senior year at Chief Joseph which was great for two reasons. it meant that she couldn’t entertain any ideas of escaping the reservation with me and it also meant that she got into the movies for two dollars cheaper than i did. and so, it became my number one date choice–but only for a matinee. i don’t feel terribly good about the damaging effect of my leachery and it’s a memory i don’t often repeat in my mind but one that often invades, amended ever so quietly, to the joyful memories of rolling around on her aunt’s couch and skinny dipping in the icey waters of nearby Chumatch’it Creek. my favourite routine was to walk up to a theater ticket booth and proclaim, “one child, one adult”, while gently nibbling audrey’s ear. the fact that she had no hips and was all of 4’11″ lent itself to the image of pedophile treating his latest victim to a matinee.

  • Indian Summer

in that obtuse pergatory between the time i graduated from high school and the time i left college, i dated audrey cleoparty with a belligerant indifference. she was a girl chosen, not because she had any outstanding qualities, but because she didn’t seem to mind that i was leaving. it wasn’t until later that i realized she was hoping to change my mind before the leaves turned grey and dark and the cold, harsh, depressing reservation winters accosted the small town of middlesborough. those winters were so harsh that livestock were lost. indians, too, were lost. people to passed out in cars after partying too late into those early hours that are reserved mainly for lovers and the dying and party’s at Popcorn’s house out in the sticks. the elderly were also driven off the road like bison by the fog that fell like a smallpox-infected blanket over the icey, unkept roads. one year, a tribal policeman succumbed to this opression. but now, it was summer. the snows had not yet cemented the town and everyone was out and about. you could always find a basketball game at the park and you could always find an audrey on the benches outside the convenience store on a lazy afternoon when nobody noticed the failing light of the afternoon sun as it made brilliant spectacles of blue and pink hues in the sky over the nearby mountain range. sucking down a 64 oz. soda and eating a hot dog, audrey’s attrocious habits would one day catch up with her as the Rez did to everybody eventually. but, for now, she was little and cute and seventeen years old and her habits had added the pounds in all the right places—a condition my brothers at the basketball court referred to as “ripe fruit”. like all fruit, it eventually spoiled on the vine and that’s when you picked it and had four or five kids and six or seven dogs and lived in a depressed Project Housing Development, which is an oxymoron i, to this day, can’t get over. if one was lucky enough, the spoiled fruit eventually turned into wine and that’s when it became a Grandma–the most feared and matriarchal of the reservation hierarchy. everyone had a Mom’s-mom but not every Mom’s-mom was a grandma. And so it was in that summer shortly before my nineteenth birthday that i began seeing audrey cleoparty whom, it was rumored, was the cousin of my second aunt’s niece. i’ve come to realize that this is taboo in normal society but on the reservation, where eveyone is related, it’s great news because it means you’re not first or even second cousins. everyone has horror stories about a friend of their classmate’s who met at pow-wow only to find themselves attending the same grandma’s funeral. audrey was only seventeen and entering her senior year at Chief Joseph which was great for two reasons. it meant that she couldn’t entertain any ideas of escaping the reservation with me and it also meant that she got into the movies for two dollars cheaper than i did. and so, it became my number one date choice–but only for a matinee. i don’t feel terribly good about the damaging effect of my leachery and it’s a memory i don’t often repeat in my mind but one that often invades, amended ever so quietly, to the joyful memories of rolling around on her aunt’s couch and skinny dipping in the icey waters of nearby Chumatch’it Creek. my favourite routine was to walk up to a theater ticket booth and proclaim, “one child, one adult”, while gently nibbling audrey’s ear. the fact that she had no hips and was all of 4’11″ lent itself to the image of pedophile treating his latest victim to a matinee.

  • 22nd

love is a solstice. at once the longest and shortest day of our greatest hopes and fears.

  • the unfortunate part

at thirty, and dirty, i lay there all flirty and said she had beautiful eyes. she wanted my body i wanted her soul “that’s a fair swap” i told her real cold. i understand, and it gets really old, but how does one wipe this shit from their soul?

  • the typical way

i remember the day i took her away and used other men’s words to woo her i did this because i was playing a part and none of my own charms could move her it was a sad little play but i’m happy to say i disguised my vacuous heart she believes what i say then is surprised by the day when she finds that we’re so far apart

  • three things

…so sittin there, this guy. this guy comes up and sits next to me and starts yappin immediately. about war. about women (big difference between those two, right?) about everything. and he doesn’t shut up. and i’m half-shot already. i’m thinkin i might have to open a can of whoop-ass pretty soon. but this guy is crazy old. maybe 65 and he looks like hell. “i’ve killed people, you know”, he says real serious like. “women. children. and even some viet-cong.” i take another drink. “so don’t you look at me like i’m goin to be intimidated.” i take another drink and keep lookin forward. if he touches me—-hell, if he even squares up to me i know i’m goin to knock his old ass out. he senses this and continues on about women and war. i tune it out like background, refrigerator noise and he keeps rambling. we keep up this shaky truce for another half hour or so. i decide to mix it up a bit so i buy him a drink. something hard and strong. anybody who’s taken a kid’s life deserves a drink. deserves more self-destruction. and then i get him another. after about the third one he shuts up. he just stares forward–like he’s lookin into the future. or the past. about a thousand and three miles into the distance. “so how old’re you?”, i ask trying to sound sober. “48″. i put down my drink and look into bar-mirror at old man winter sitting next to me. that’s when i realize he’s spent every day/night from 1973 until now, in a bar. sitting here talkin to blokes like me. wasting his life. that’s why he’s been going on like he has been. because he’s been doing that same monologue for the past thirty years. but not this time. this time he’s drunk thanks in no small part to moi. i stand up. ready to leave. seeing your future is a pretty sobering thing. “i ain’t gonna look like hell when i’m 48″, i think to myself. somebody’s playing ‘sympathy for the devil’ for the umpteenth time tonight on the jukebox (“…please allow meeee to introduce mysellllf..”). “three things”, he says still lookin forward. “only three things i’ve ever regretted in my life”. i take another drink. not because i want to take another drink but because i want him to know that he’s got an audience if he wants to elaborate. “my wife. my daughter. and that kid”, he purses his lips and forces another drink of the hard stuff down his throat. perhaps to coax out more words. this man, this man sittin here next to me was hard as nails when he walked in. but now. now he was real again. perhaps that’s why he drank. so he could be real again. i don’t ask about “that kid” any further. don’t ask him to elaborate. in his head, i can see that he’s already elaborating to himself. that he’s already re-living it in his mind. in his hell. i put a hand on his shoulder and walk out—leaving him there. sitting on that bar stool next to his demons. having a drink. (“…have some sypathyyyy and some taaaste…”) it’s cold outside. and wet. not like real cities with real rain. but like seattle. with a constant drizzle like some ancient water torture. fuck.

  • winner: best excerpt 1996

ladies and gentlemen, this is the former winner of “best excerpt 1996″. it’s from a relatively obscure zimbabwean writer named, Charles (Dambudzo) Marechera and comes from his book, “House of Hunger”. Marechera died from AIDS and, while he had plenty of opportunity to have mucho bucks in the bank, passed away homeless and without a penny to his name. for him there was only only writing. soooooooo, without further ado: “I found a seed, a little seed. The smallest in the world. And its name was Hate. I buried it deep in my heart and watered it with tears.”

  • addiction

death is a woman in january, a providence of a lesser god. immured by fucking complacency sitting around a crowded campfire (or life) and warming yourself while the other side of you is as cold as a funeral.

  • burn

cortez comes to the new world and his men immediately start givin him shit: “too many indians!” “too much jungle!” “no cities of gold.” “no God here.” “heathens!” —let’s go back to Spain. cortez hears this but is hearing none of this. “fuck ‘em-we ain’t goin anywhere—take what we we need and burn those fuckin ships.” the ships go ablaze and the men have nowhere to go. no return. no spain. no god. just like GG said, “drink, fight, and fuck”. they didn’t have much booze but they definitely fucked and fought. took ‘em all over and made a place for themselves in history. brought religion and disease to the new world on the back of a god of war. it all applies still. that cortez–he and GG both. geniuses those ones. burn your ships. burn ‘em all.

One thought on “Jared Washine – Writings

  1. Pingback: Jared Washines – Style Icon – waldina

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