Looker
Interruption moment seven. Chalking in secrets speak devil food's tongue. And
so on. BB lives on a flat in room seven, surrounded by tears. She's ten ages
behind on her math. That's what you learn after the other two R's you know.
She's everything. She shouldn't write this down till everyone's patting
someone else's buttocks. Year you were born indeed. Now where's she off to
you ask yourself. Off to this vacation cottage of swish cheese and bric-a-brac
that's where. Only you wanna call it art. Ok.
Tortured soul that I am I'm going leave the above, after having erased the
second two. Sorry, can't deal with that much random Brandt samples. So you
say I might be posted to the bitter end train station, nowhere to leave my
keys. As if my thoughts were made of shattered skies in rainbow colors, how
sad, and me without my genuine lambs wool jacket. I guess it was enough of a
weekend for me already. Need time to reflect. Don't get much of that.
Working out in the barn is like a stiff. I cut through the crafty bullshit of
an ornament I could sell, but then its as if I've already built it, and frankly
its boring. I don't like it, I'm not positive there's a receptive enough
audience (willing to pay?!), and so I hold off. Meanwhile there's another
candle holder implement that came out today with an image of flammable looking
leaves and grasses surrounding a flame. How weird is that?
Not weird enough evidently as here I sit writing instead. Scale. I
can't imagine around it. Scale is this substitute for learning, a bridge
across which lies a substance in our thinking that is missing, for our learning
is like a hard surface, stone or metal or a block of wood—solid in our hand but
thirsty. The water absorbed by a piece of wood fills in tiny voids, we call it
porous, its nature made. Those holes, voids really, may be flooded with
moisture, but when they are not, there's nothing there. Hence the infinite
sadness around assuming an impossible world, what your kind sometimes call a
suspension of disbelief. For it may indeed be that our science will never
inherently be able to unlock all the doors in existence, for existence isn't
known for her generosity only; but also for her dismissals.
So what to make next is of course the comic. The one thing I've spent the day
not doing. I'll be back.
I'm back...
Today is twenty something October, 2013.
So if you needed it, more evidence of a broken border security system, on top
of no right to privacy, or even freedom--
What I wrote last night:
Salmon, that building block of northwest native culture. Hands off, if you're a
border cop. Salmon are off limits, apparently. Potatoes on the other hand, now
that has to be thrown out because we say so, and because it didn't come with a
label, or we have to have evidence that you really own that bag of potatoes
otherwise I'm
going to detain you until you tell me what I want to hear, and no other.
I could've talked my way into a jail cell tonight with only my mouth. I could
dismantle my life with a sentence. Prove me wrong.
Okay, back to present tense.
We will begin dismantling with my life: passwords, credit cards, favorite
search terms, likes to dance, etc.
Here is the time to condemn to death by natural causes followed by me first in
line to step on his thick neck hard and squeeze, Forcing people to do and say
exactly what he wants, see how you like it. Obviously I can't be trusted by my
words and they were so good as to make an exception on account of my having
AIDS. Thanks.
So how is it they can legitimately confiscate my potatoes, my cherry tomatoes,
my dog food (some labeled some not), so obviously mine or not mine so I am
supposed to go along now, and play well with the shooting gallery cop show, one
at a time, no pushing, bean the next duck in a line with a pop gun. How do the
border cops know what is better for America for doing his, come on now, service
they call it, I guess as robot minded human drone? I mean he's a dupe right? He
willfully leaves Mark out of this. Doesn't even realize the meds (in their
properly labeled container, are for Mark, but in accordance with the border cop
school up in border cop land, have been examined in earnest by tiny border cop
pharmacists and presumably border cop hired doctors, playwing out their little
drug fantasies with non-imaginary border cop chemistry test sets, just like
back in the 5th grade. Yes he threatened to use his narco drug opiate test kit
to verify my claims about my unlabeled pharmaceuticals. If you've got the
aspirin then I've got the opiates and narcotics! (Don't forget the doctor's Rx
scipt, or failing that the evidence of
YOUR HIV STATUS FOR ALL THE WORLD TO SEE.
THIS is why I wish to throttle (boot on neck) every American ever to say that
tighter police security is a good idea, because drugs are bad and we aren't
doing anything illegal, you complacent oaf.
This is what's making me crazy:
Prescription drug containers need labels, except when they don't. My potatoes
needed a container that says I own them. They say my plastic bag must be
labeled, original store container that is I suppose, Dept of Commerce approved.
Garden produce is forbidden-- my telling them its made in Canada (I grew it in
Canada) cuts no ice with the border cop, I mean if I established a business and
paid taxes on my gross and contributed to little league etc THEN I'd have a
receipt on my company letterhead, and all would be groovy--I could bring back
to the USA all the blue potatoes I wanted to. But oh no, I grew them out of my
garden in lower British Columbia, from established potato starts purchased from
Canadian Tire last April or so. Benefit of the doubt? Sorry no, personhood has
been trumped by business. They are now in an innocuous clear plastic bag, with
no zip lock and no writing on it at all. Clear plastic bag of potatoes. Clear
and present danger, according to the cops.
But you see they are fine with just assuming that the home canned salmon
(unlabeled) belongs to me. Native culture triumphs. That's not even an
issue. Maybe tribal fishing rights are like Kriptonite to border cops.
Meanwhile beef is forbidden, in both directions, I think. Like why do these
controlled drugs that are so valuable that a dozen could be purchased on the
streets for enough good coin to justify this sort of misery, and they must be
labeled and licensed so our hero border cops can go bust those bad bad bad drug
selling greedy bastard power crazed hippies!!! I mean I'm not required to have
a receipt, that would merely be annoying. No, I have to label absolutely
everything that belongs to me, as mine.
PICS OF THINGS THAT belong to me.
No, I have to carry the docs evidence of my illness ON ME. In the old days I
was trapped in the closet for fear of being killed as an out of the closet fag.
Nowadays I'm locked outside the closet legally speaking with my drug
requirements stitched onto my frock as if well endowed scarlet HIV swag for all
to see.
MY PRIVACY IS an INHERENT right.
Doesn't anyone even get this? I thought freedom meant not being told to carry
your papers with you. While our boys in blue buses with large clear plastic
bullet-proof potato head containers don't even distinguish a hand full of pills
belonging to a nobody (me) versus, I don't know, the world getting better? No,
really? 12 capsules? Who is safer? He hands me back my prescription bottle of
Lorazepam (Rx made out to Mark Smith who is btw omitted from my passport) while
saying how important it is to have my Name physically attached to my HIV meds,
THOSE drugs, those 12 pills, somehow thereby making the world safer. When I
questioned him, he got pissed off and threatened me.
Did I miss my destiny as potato gun smuggling drug cartell dictator? That's SR
Whoretense to YOU.
Also the dog food. I should've seen that one coming, but I didn't. They
confiscated the dog food. A handful of potatoes in an unmarked clear plastic
bag. Confiscated. Also a half eaten tray of cherry tomatoes. They confiscate
the harvest. Clearly food has the upper hand here. Dog food and tomatoes,
fine I actually should have known better. Potatoes never occurred to me. Rx
drugs I just can't even imagine.
There's more. The power trip thing there with the cop threatening to leave me
to rot while he researched what each HIV capsule was, manufacturer and name, if
I didn't stop questioning his reasons. I think psychological terrorism. Plain
and simple. Say what I tell you to say and THEN I'll take my foot off your
windpipe. If it pleases me. Thinking the whole time, "bet he can't even take a
punch". No he didn't touch me.
I guess the potatoes, and the cherry tomatoes, and the dog kibble, they go
through ritual purging followed by burning or incineration, to eliminate all
likely viable toxins, odors, and general negative hippy vibes.
To sum up-- I'm supposed to carry around PAPER STICKERS that PROVE my AMBROSIA
APPLES are Canadian and accept that my home grown potatoes are never allowed in
to the US if taken out and my HIV status is available to any border official
who wants to know.
HAVE ANY OF YOU kids EVER SEEN ME TYPE IN ALL CAPS BEFORE?
I'm grateful they didn't keep my drugs and to my shame I croaked out an
eye-to-ceiling "thanks" on the way OUT to get Sadie out of her pen (ie JAIL),
after an hour delay, for my being instructed to carry a written reminder with
me, every day of my life, in the form of a prescription drug script. And this
label is required on my person when entering the United States. One hour delay
just thinking I AM SICK of not making any of this SHIT UP.
I give up. Alright Cyberspace here it is: I AM HIV POSITIVE.
... Ohhh - - and add to that that if this gets out to the real world i'd be
OUTTED all over again, across America, by my very own fan base??? Guess what
America, my MOM and DAD don't know about my HIV status. Is that clear?? For
which every one of you I hereby designate as responsible for keeping them in
ignorance of that fact. And that means you. And if you outlive me and I outlive
them, fuck you, deal still holds. Now if you pardon me I need a cigarette.
Someday I will step on your grave.
(Sorry you'all. It needed saying that's all. A few years late granted. Well now
the cat's out. Long live the cat. My parents may find out, but given their
dubious computer savvy, its sort of unlikely.) They told me my grandmother died
via email, so maybe we're even. Then again its better than texting.
Just to calm me down, here's a sketch I did the other day.
A handfull of potatoes in an unmarked clear plastic bag. A handful of hiv drugs
in an unmarked plastic container. Which is more dangerous?
