Lyric Bibliography

Wilco, “Summerteeth,” Summerteeth, 1998
Radiohead, “Karma Police,” 1997
Tom Petty, “You don’t know how it feels,” _________, 1996
Laurie Anderson, “So Happy Birthday,” United States I – IV, 1984
Nine Inch Nails, “The day the world went away,” The Fragile, 1999
Player, “Baby, come back,” Player, 1977
Bjork, “It’s oh-so quiet,” _______, 1995
The Flaming Lips, “Waitin’ for a Superman,” The Soft Bulletin, 1999
Tupac Shakur, “Keep your head up,” ___________, 1995
Bone Thugs –n- Harmony, “First of the month,” ________, 1996
The The, “Love is stronger than death,” Dusk, 1993
The Cure, “Fascination street,” Disintegration, 1989
Lo-Fidelity All Stars, “Nightime Story,” How to operate on a blown mind, 2000
U2, “Stay (Faraway, So Close!),” Zooropa, 1993
The Flaming Lips, “Feeling yourself disintegrate,” The Soft Bulletin, 1999
The La’s, “There she goes again,” The La’s, 1995
White Zombie, “Super-Charger Heaven,” Astro-Creep 2000, 1995
The The, “Good Morning, beautiful,” Mind Bomb, 1989
Garbage, “Special,” Garbage 2.0, 1998
Robbie Williams, “Millennium,” ________, 1999
Limp Bizkit, “Re-arranged,” Significant Other, 1999
The Blue Nile, “Downtown lights,” Hats, 1989
Ultra Vivid Scene, “Extra Ordinary,” Joy, 1967-1991, 1991
Lenny Kravitz, “More than anything in this world,” Mama Said, 1992
Neneh Cherry, “Twisted,” Homebrew, 1992
The Rainmakers, “Snakedance,” The Rainmakers, 1986
Travis, “Why does it always rain on me?” The Man Who, 2000
Beastie Boys, “So whatcha want,” Check your Head, 1992
Rage Against the Machine, “No Shelter,” The Battle of Los Angeles, 1999
Outkast, “Gasoline Dreams,” Stankonia, 2000
Radiohead, “Paranoid android,” Ok Computer, 1997
Coldcut, “The only way is up,” Coldcut, 1994
The Delgados, “No danger,” The Great Eastern, 2000
Rush, “Tom Sawyer,” Moving Pictures, 1982
Vertical Horizon, “Everything you want,” Vertical Horizon, 2000
The Flaming Lips, “The Spark that Bled,” The Soft Bulletin, 1999
Oran, “Juice” Jones, “The Rain,” ________, 1985
Radiohead, “Planet Telex,” The Bends, 1995
The Cardigans, “Lovefool,” Meet the Cardigans, 1996
Hope, “Tree Frog,” _______, 1994
Everything But the Girl, “Five Fathoms (SNK),” _____, 1997
Sponge, “Loaded,” Rotting Piñata, 1995
Electric Light Orchestra, “Strange Magic,” Eldorado, 1974
Dionne Farris, “I know,” _______, 1994
Metallica, “Enter Sandman,” Metallica, 1991
Massive Attack, “Mezzanine,” Mezzanine, 1998
Wilco, “Pieholden Suite,” Summerteeth, 1998
U2, “Lemon,” Zooropa, 1993
Deftones, “Elite,” White Pony, 2000
Korn, “Make me bad,” Issues, 2000
B-52’s, “Housework,” Mesopotamia, 1982
Electric Light Orchestra, “Showdown,” Eldorado, 1974
Soundgarden, “Superunknown,” Superunknown, 1994
Devotchka, “Head honcho,” Supermelodrama, 2000
Sister Sledge, “He’s the greatest dancer,” ______, 1978
The Flaming Lips, “What is the light?” The Soft Bulletin, 1999
The Other Ones, “We are who we are,” The Other Ones, 1985
Icehouse, “No Promises,” ______, 1988
The Stray Cats, “Daddy’s home,” ________, 1983
The Smiths, “Stop me if you’ve heard this before,” Strangeways, Here We Come, 1985
Madonna, “Live to tell,” At Close Range, 1985
Radiohead, “Pyramid Song,” Amnesiac, 2001

Dedication

To my family, who may or may not finish reading this, and they may or may not like all of its content, but who will, as always, continue to love me, just the same.

To Mike, always on point, who knew I’d finish this, even when I didn’t.

To David, whose opinions and approval were catalyst not only for this book, but critically timed to continue my transformation during a very low, low point in my life.  Thank you!  

To Dail, my unstoppable Aries friend.  The embodiment of "Never give up.  Never give out."  Thank you for your enthusiasm about these words when I felt nothing of the sort!  Thank you!  Thank you!

To the people I’ve met along the way who are referenced within these pages, for good or bad, because without them and their acquaintance, I’d have so much less to write!

And to all those people who came along at just the right points in my life to make an impact.

I thank you all, very, very much.

Lance

Epilogue

One day in July of 2000, I came to realize that this book would never be completely finished. I believe this because I still could, for quite some time into the future, add to, and re-analyze these stories, gathering new meaning from these experiences, and continue to edit, re-forming that already committed to print. And then, I continued to write. And then, I wrote some more. But I think I’ll stop here.

Now it's 2008. Wow!  Is this not done!

Thank you for reading what's been written so far. I hope you liked it.

Before

They could feel the land before they ever saw it. It had been days and days and days since there had been even a hint of coastline, islands on the horizon, humanity, fresh water, anything. Tonight, though, was different. Most of them were sleeping, or trying to, when a feeling of discontent or anxiety took over one of the men, who decided to rise and ease those feelings experienced by staring onto the endless horizon.

Landlocked people don’t understand how much reflective power a full sky of stars has on the ocean. Contrasts between light and darkness are interpreted on a different visual spectrum, so even after his vision had adjusted, the man still couldn’t be sure to trust his eyes. He stood motionless, staring, for a few minutes, wanting more affirmation from the possible masses he saw southwest from their vessel. During the time the man was trying to analyze the sliding empirical evidence the night and the stars and the ocean offered, he was made aware of the tension in his stomach. The cause of his anxiety he mistakenly attributed to nervousness about future food supply, homesickness for his son, his wife, buildings and surroundings from his home city, the familiar comfort from his home shores, or the realization of the duration of this adventure, which was already much longer than intended. Land or not, the expedition was not even half over.

Consumed by these thoughts and analyses, he was slow to realize he was no longer alone. He looked to his left and right, and all were there, all staring southwest, all silent. The stars were shining brightly, and from that distance, the man swore he saw light, or movement. He wasn’t sure if the others saw anything similar, but by the lack of commotion, talking, or excitement displayed by the men, he knew they all felt something…not right.

They had found it and it had already begun.

Right before

…They worked in silence, making themselves and the smaller boat ready to embark. They rowed in unison, gently breaking the waves, cruising in quietly and deliberately, timid and un-announced. The tightness of his face reflected the pressure in his stomach as the sound of the waves striking the rocky beachhead intensified. They were arriving safely, but this was of no comfort. The warm wind chilled, heeding him to pay attention, to be…aware.

The sky was a navy blue sea of diamonds, shining brightly, coldly, and perfectly over the solid blackness of ocean below. The unseen already in motion, all was now in place. Events in the forefront could begin. And they did begin. At that moment, at that arc of realization, on this, the most visually beautiful night of his life.

During/the end

They had arrived safely. The water was seasonably warm, and not uncomfortable. The waves rippled and crashed as they pushed the boat an acceptable distance onshore. The song of the insects was unfamiliar. The air was humid. Dread was eating the man, his nausea rising. He wondered why. Everything seemed to be fine.

They were preparing to build a fire and explore the immediate area when the attack started. The noise of landing had masked all other sounds, and the inhabitants of the island were upon them before they had a chance to organize a defense, as they had not accounted for such a situation. The ones that had survived the initial onslaught ran aimlessly, further away from their boat, their lives taken one by one. A few men made an attempt to re-launch the boat, but were killed before they got to the water.

The man’s dread was forgotten as he ran along the beach, but his crippling nausea remained, bile rising with every footfall. He ran parallel to the shore, the water only feet away. His breath was heavy from panic. After an acceptable distance, he reasoned, he would disappear into the tree line until the morning, then swim to the ship.

He continued to run, loudly exhaling his fear, his mouth gulping the sea air. He veered towards the trees, his immediate safe harbor. Darkness and brush and unfamiliar florae enveloped him as he decided to stop and rest and look back at what was left of the expedition. The man who had followed him into the trees noticed his shocked expression as he turned around to look. He knew his prey had not heard him follow, as fear had overwhelmed all but his instinctual, reflexive flight. The inhabitant fell upon him, and the deed was done. The man’s life had ended on this island unfamiliar.

Off shore, the ship was anchored in semi-shallow waters, its silhouette alone against the horizon. The lone occupant of the ship, the dog, paced and whined and cried, echoing the distant and occasional cries from the island. After awhile, the dog began to yowl, breaking the silence that had once again settled in over the area. After a period of no response, the dog once again became quiet, and laid down to wait.

Miles upon miles over the ocean, the man’s wife went about finishing her daily activities. Their son, not far away, was amusing himself, within her view. She watched him for a moment as he ran in circles. She smiled and called for him to follow, as it was time for them to go inside. She turned around again when she reached the doorway, calling to him, pulling on a creeping vine, silently breathing a prayer to God to watch over her husband.

Excerpts from my birthchart

“The Sky Within,” by Steven Forrest - Koch System of Interpretation
Astro.com birthchart – Placidus System
Astrology Revealed, by Paul Fenton – Koch System


Note:

The Koch System of Interpretation divides the Houses equally, while the Placidus system is based on unequal house divisions and degrees.

Due to this differing interpretive style, House positions for Venus, Mars, Uranus, Neptune, and Pluto vary, but sign placement is not effected. Since five of the nine planets are cusp, I have incorporated elements from each interpretation, as both interpretations are accurate. Information provided from “The Sky Within,” by Steven Forrest is in normal type, excerpts from Astrology Revealed, by Paul Fenton-Smith is in bold type, and information from Astro.com is italicized.

Sun, Capricorn, 1st House

“First House energies ‘act out’ a lot. They’re a visible, dramatic, well-developed part of your nature. For that reason, there is a part of your life where people think you have a real gift for leadership. They’re right—but it doesn’t always feel that way to you. How to get it right? Easy—trust your instincts. Be yourself. A good plot proceeds from a sound, coherent character.

With your Sun in the First House, there’s a lot of punch to your style. People tend to be impressed by you, to remember you. In fact, you sometimes have to make an effort to avoid overwhelming them. That charisma and apparent self-assurance masks the evolutionary issue you face: Creating a destiny. Because, unlike most people, you were born without one! The ‘hand of fate’ plays a minimal role in your life. There’s a frightening freedom built into this solar position. It all boils down to the words of St. Augustine, ‘Love God, and do what you will.’”

Moon, Cancer, 7th House

“There are two parts to understanding the Seventh House. The first is whatever energies you have in this part of your birth chart represent lessons you’re learning about empathy, trust, and commitment. The second is that those same planetary energies describe the people who’ll provide the lessons. They may be mates or lovers. They may be best friends. They may be colleagues of business associates. They may even be ‘worthy opponents.’

With the Moon in the Seventh House, you’ve shoved the most vulnerable part of your psychological self right into the hornet’s nest: The perilous world of intimacy! You bring tremendous empathy and caring into your love life; you also bring all your wounds and tender places.”
“The Moon, the Earth’s satellite, was found in the Seventh House at the time of your birth. Exciting romance may occur at an early stage of life. We must warn you, however, that unless modified by further interpretations, the marital partner has fluctuating affections. You’re also one of those who throughout marriage manifest a great variety of personality roles and who seldom shows in intimacy his real nature.”

Sun in Capricorn, Moon in Cancer

“This astrological combination indicates a sensitive individual who is vulnerable to external influences. Your general life outlook is one of economy and prudence. You find fulfillment in home life and there are good prospects for possessions, fame, and reputation. Emotionally, you tend to concentrate, conserve, and utilize energy, as well. You constantly relive experiences in an effort to organize your life and achieve a unity of will. The key to a more harmonious existence lies in heeding your individuality and just opinions.”

Ascendant, Capricorn, 1st House, Saturn in Second House

“There’s a privacy about Capricorn. A solitude. You need time to yourself. Too many social responsibilities wear you out, take away your ease. At the same time, you need to guard against locking yourself up inside a fortress of apparent self-sufficiency. That’s the road to loneliness.”

“Capricorn tends to a life full of difficulties, which forces you to exert all your resources in order to triumph. Because of your tact and prudence, you will be favored with the good will of important people. Your mind is egocentric, rational, and you have a natural tendency toward skepticism. Able to work hard, you will bear obstacles and frustrations with patience.


You will proceed with prudence in your love life and all other activities. You will seriously consider all of the ramifications of marriage, especially the aspects of your independence, and you will not marry until you are sure of your choice. After marriage however, there is a tendency to conduct a peaceful and quiet life. You are very economical in your daily activities, and if you do not exert some control over this trait, it could appear as rather mean.”


Sun conjunct Ascendant

“The Sun conjunct Ascendant shows you have a great desire for recognition and are creative in finding ways to gain attention. In general, you are uncompromising. You have great faith in your ability to rise above any of life’s negative circumstances. You know how to use your vast creative resources in a direct assault against any adversary, and you believe that eventually you will succeed. Most often you do, but when challenged by stiff competition, you will resort to brute force to demonstrate that you do not give in without a fight. You know how to win friends and influence people, and you use this talent effectively.”

Saturn, Pisces, 2nd House

“With Saturn here, you build faith in yourself brick by brick through taking on long-term, often solitary, projects that ask for everything you can do. Depending on the tone of the rest of your birth chart, that could mean anything from medical school to a solo trek across Greenland by dog sled. You weren’t born with a lot of faith in yourself, but you were born with the ability to earn it.”

Venus, Aquarius, 2nd and 1st House (Combined interpretation)

“Traditionally the Second House is the House of Money. That’s true, but the issues here are much broader. This is the House of Resources, and resources aren’t always financial. If you’re lost in Dubrovnik, Yugoslavia, at two in the morning, you’ll probably feel pretty insecure. If you have $1000 in your pocket, that’ll help; you’ll feel more legitimate. The money is a resource, and it produces the classic Second House effect: Helping you feel more confident. But speaking fluent Serbo-Croatian would do the same; knowing the language is a terrific resource, even though no one will give you a nickel for it.

Your Second House energies feel awkward, as if everyone is staring at them. Dignity and self-esteem are the issues here. The solution isn’t some ‘We all God’s chillin’’ formula for uncritical self-love. Instead, it’s a process of recognizing your deficiencies objectively and seeking to correct them: Proving yourself to yourself, in other words.

Venus is the part of your mental circuitry that’s concerned with releasing tension and maintaining harmony. Its focus is always peace, inwardly and outwardly. As such, it represents your aesthetic functions—your taste in colors, sounds, and forms. Why? Because the perception of beauty soothes the human heart. Venus is also tied to your affiliative functions—your romantic instincts, your sense of courtesy, and diplomacy, your taste in friends. Invariable, this planet has one goal; Sustaining your serenity in the face of life’s onslaughts.


Venus was passing through Aquarius. Thus, both your aesthetic sensitivity and your taste in partners are shaped by the rule-smashing spirit of the Exile. In the realm of beauty, whether natural or wrought by human hands, you have a taste for the unexpected, for the shocking—and a corresponding contempt for hackneyed themes. The same goes for friends and sexual partners—you appreciate independent individuals with spunk and novel perspectives, people who are willing to let you be yourself without fear of knee-jerk criticism.

With Venus in your Second House, you prove yourself to yourself in two basic ways. The first lies in trusting your creativity enough to invest in it. The second is to cultivate and refine your personal attractiveness—but there’s more to that than finding a new hair stylist! Be yourself in the most inspired way you can imagine…that’s the essence of it.”


(Venus, 1st House, Aquarius)

“Those with Venus in Aquarius can seem to be detached emotionally. They can feel more at home with a group of people than spending time solely with their partners. Freedom is of paramount importance for people with this placement. They resist being possessed and prefer partners who are also their friends. Friendships are more valuable to them at times than relationships.

Those with Venus in the first house tend to be friendly and outgoing, exuding the Venusian attractiveness and generosity. Others find these people attractive and easy to get along with, and are willing to help them achieve their goals."

Mars, 2nd and 1st House (Combined)

“The red planet symbolizes the power of the Will. Assertiveness. Courage. Without it, there’d be no fire in life. No spark. Where your Mars lies, you are challenged to find the Spiritual Warrior inside yourself, the part of you that’s brave and clear enough to claim your own path and follow it.

Mars is scrapping in Aquarius. This combination ties the belligerent, competitive energy of the Warrior to the independent, iconoclastic spirit of the Genius or the Exile. The result is that an instinct to question and challenge authority is woven into the logic of your psyche. Something in you cannot abide a boss! Spiritually, you are learning about the loneliness and social ostracism that so often are the price of a passionate dedication to truth. With the War-God occupying your Second House, you prove yourself to yourself through the rituals of adventure and assertiveness. You need to develop confidence in the legitimacy and prowess of the Warrior within you.”

(Mars, 1st House)

“Those with Mars in Aquarius tend to have sharp minds and can argue clearly and vigorously. However, they are more likely to fight for a cause than for themselves. This placement reduces the Mars competitiveness through the natural Aquarian sense of fair play. These people are often prepared to seek other cultures through travel and they experience a restlessness and a need to relocate from time to time
As the First House is the natural position for Mars, the placement increases the physical energy and the need for physical activity. Although natural organisers, those with Mars in the First House tend to be impatient with others and eventually insist on doing everything themselves. They are usually self-confident and have an air of purpose about them. They need to be careful about accidents to the head, or headaches.”

Mercury, Sagittarius, 12th House

“Intellectually you are curious, full of desire for wonder and amazement—and the urge to convert it into philosophical understanding. Spiritually you are learning about the soul’s absolute need for an endless, voracious diet of new experience.

With the traditional ‘Messenger of the Gods’ occupying your Twelfth House, your intelligence is much concerned with the investigation of consciousness itself. You trigger greater psychic sensitivity and spiritual awareness in yourself when you flood your senses with incongruous, surprising, stimulating information and questions…The trick here lies in using the intellect to trip the intellect.”

Jupiter, Gemini, 6th House

“When you need to boost your elemental faith in life, your answer lies in following the Way of the Witness or the Storyteller. What that means is that when you’re sad, the only cure is a big dose of amazement. Do something new. Take a chance. Learn something. Break up a routine. Have a fascinating conversation with an intriguing stranger. Almost invariably that will put the sparkle back in your eyes.”

Neptune, Scorpio, 11th and 10th House(s)

“Neptune, planet of transcendence, occupies the 11th House of your birthchart, where its mystical feelings are linked to the priorities which increasingly shape and dominate your life as you mature. If you get six out of every ten existential questions right by the time you’re old, you’ll be living a contemplative life, full of the prescience of God. Inevitably, down that road we see you surrounded by people who draw inspiration from you. The darker path, optional unless you fail to explore the spiritual dimensions of your life now, is that by the end of life you’ll be totally dedicated to keeping yourself anesthetized..."

(10th House)

“Neptune in the Tenth House can assist with career success if these people have a career in the psychic sciences, nursing, or in a charity organization. These people are idealistic and attracted to a career that improves the lives of others. Neptune in the Tenth House is about dissolving past attitudes to career and the importance of gaining a reputation in the eyes of others. It encourages the devotion of energy towards showing others that beyond material needs there is a spiritual purpose which offers everyone the peace and fulfillment they seek.”

Uranus, Pluto, Virgo, 9th and 8th House(s)

“Your birth chart shows still another area where planets congregate: the Ninth. By combining forces, Uranus and Pluto emphasize that department of your life almost as powerfully as the Sun or Moon would.

The House of Long Journeys over Water—that’s the old name for this part of the birth chart. Since you have energy focused here, a fortune teller would say ‘I see travel in your stars.’ True enough, although a deeper way of expressing the same notion is that immersing yourself in cultures outside the one into which you were born is a pivotal spiritual catalyst for you.

Ultimately, in the Ninth House, you weave a grand scheme of life’s meaning and purpose, at least your own version of it…Uranus is your teacher here and the lessons can be summarized this way: To find your true individuality, you must undertake a quest. That quest probably contains an element of travel—the mythical journey ‘to seek your fortune.’ But it also involves a broad process of learning and stretching your philosophical views…

At the moment of your birth, Pluto gleamed in the Ninth House…a part of the natal chart concerned with expansive adventures, and with philosophy. It is essential that you make contact, however brief or long term, with ‘foreign’ cultures. Through the act of committing yourself to such a quest, a transformation occurs in your being—and the capacity to fulfill your transpersonal mission arises. What is that mission? To forcefully encourage people to consider their lives from the viewpoint of meaning and purpose. This is the Path of the Preacher; follow it, but be wary of the pitfalls of self-righteousness and certainty.”

Uranus, Pluto, 8th House

(Uranus in Virgo) “…increases the scientific and mechanical mind of Virgo, and these people have keen business abilities. They are capable of presenting realistic solutions to problems and prefer to rethink their ideas before proceeding. These people can improve accepted methods and procedures with their practical inventions and solutions. They have an interest in natural healing and psychic healing, and they need to guard against hypochondriacs if Uranus is negatively aspected.”

Those with Uranus in the Eighth House usually have a deep interest in the occult (hidden knowledge) and intuitive dreams at night. They have an unusual approach to sex, and are likely to die suddenly rather that the result of a prolonged illness.”

“Those with Pluto in the Eighth House are usually intuitive, with the ability to penetrate to the core of a person or situation. This is the natural house placement for Pluto, and this placement makes for very intense people, as they combine Pluto’s need to transform and the Eighth House desire to strip away that which is superfluous in life. They can be ‘all or nothing’ people, who throw themselves into situations or ignore their surroundings. They make good investigators and can intuitively understand people quickly and accurately.

These people seek out intense experiences in life—where most of us (would) hold back because of the risks involved, they walk boldly into the fire. When pushed, these people can be vindictive and unrelenting in seeking personal justice. They can be dogmatic and stubborn and emotionally manipulative through emotional withdrawal. When they seek answers they leave no stone unturned and they are capable of facing the darkest parts of themselves with courage and determination. They can also be very secretive.

The lesson with this placement involves stripping away all the layers of conditioning to reveal the essence within. To find and nurture that spiritual essence or core is of paramount importance for spiritual growth and development for these people.”

Excerpts from the Myers-Briggs Personality Type indicator on Introverted Intuitive Types INTJ and INFJ

Driven by their vision of the possibilities.
Determined to the point of stubbornness.
Intensely individualistic.
Stimulated by difficulties, and most ingenious in solving them.
Willing to concede that the impossible takes a little longer – but not much.
More interested in pioneering a new road than anything to be found along the beaten path.
Motivated by inspiration, which they value above everything else and use confidently for their best achievements in any field they choose – science, engineering, invention, political or industrial empire-building, social reform, teaching, writing, psychology, philosophy, or religion.
Deeply discontented in a routine job that offers no scope for inspiration.
Gifted, at their best, with a fine insight into the deeper meanings of things, and with a great deal of drive…

“Their greatest gifts come directly from their intuition – the flashes of inspiration, the insight into relationships of ideas and meaning of symbols, the imagination, the originality, the access to resources of the unconscious, the ingenuity, and the visions of what could be. These are all inner gifts on the perceptive side. Without a developed auxiliary judging process, they will have little or no development of an outer personality and equally limited use of the gifts. However, a good judging process in support will shape the intuitive perceptions into conclusions or actions that will have a sound impact on the outer world.

Van der Hoop recognized this problem:

‘There is peculiar difficulty where this inner knowledge is concerned, in finding even approximate expression for what is perceived. It is extremely important, therefore, for people of this type to attain through their education a technique of expression…

The development of this type is slower and more arduous than that of most other people…Such children are not very amenable to influence from their environment. They may have periods of uncertainty and reserve, after which they suddenly become very determined, and if then they are opposed, they may manifest an astonishing self-will and obstinacy. As a result of the intensely spontaneous activity within, they are frequently moody, occasionally brilliant and original, then again reserved, stubborn, and arrogant.

In later life, also, it is a persistent characteristic of people of this type, that while on the one hand they possess great determination, on the other hand they find it very difficult to express what they want. Although they may have only a vague feeling about the way they want to go, and of the meaning of their life, they will nevertheless reject with great stubbornness anything that does not fit in with this. They fear lest external influences or circumstances should drive them in a wrong direction, and they resist on principle (1939, p. 48).’

It follows that these people cannot be successfully coerced. They will not even be told anything without their permission, but they will accept an offer of facts, opinions, or theories, for free consideration; the excellence of their understanding must be trusted to recognize what is true.”



Introverted Intuition supported by Thinking

INTJ’s are the most independent of all the 16 types and take more or less conscious pride in that independence. Whatever their field, they are likely to be innovators. In business, they are born reorganizers. Intuition gives them an iconoclastic imagination and an unhampered view of the possibilities; extraverted thinking supplies a keenly critical organizing faculty. “Whatever is, could doubtless be improved!” They are likely, however, to organize themselves out of a job. They cannot continually reorganize the same thing, and a finished product has no interest. Thus, they need successive new assignments, with bigger and better problems, to stretch their powers.

Even when well balanced, they have a tendency to ignore the views and feelings of other people. Use of the critical attitude in personal relations is a destructive luxury, which can have a disintegrating effect upon their personal lives. They would do well to make an effort to use their critical faculty on their impersonal problems and on themselves and to work for some development of appreciation (they need not call it feeling) to use on others.”

Cross country

The first recurring dream I can remember having is that of a house in the middle of a golf course with two curved trails leading to and from it, the silhouette of a young tree placed every 30 yards or so. The house was dirty white with a shingle roof. There was a line of cross country runners in the distance, running along the trail, symmetrically spaced, running the same speed, passing through the house when they came upon it, their pace steady. The sky was gray, with off white clouds that threatened rain, but never delivered. There was fog also, Missouri’s humidity extending the clouds seemingly all the way to the ground.

The runners ran through the mist and the fog and the woods and the house, and were always replaced with more. I remember one girl, Nora, in my dream. Nora was on my dad’s track team and had baby-sat me on previous occasions. I must have liked her, because I specifically remember her running in this dream.

I’m sure I must have seen some variation of this dream in a waking state, as many Saturdays growing up were spent at cross-country meets. My mother was creative in combating my alternating hyperactivity and boredom when no runners were in sight. We would wait for the main pack to run by, and then we would walk towards the finish line. My father would be there, with his clipboard and stop watch and sunglasses and cap, writing stats, talking with other coaches, and paying attention to the progress of his team. My father’s reputation and respect were solid amongst them all. He would smile when he saw us approach.

Like I said before, I must have seen some variation of this dream at a meet on a golf course on a cloudy Saturday morning. And then I dreamed about the runners in the distance. I still dream of events in the distance. This is the first of many I can recall. I was two. Or three.

I think dreams are important.

The floating car

I first saw the floating car when I was three, or four. We were driving into town, across the Lake Taneycomo Bridge. I think it was my sister who first saw the car, telling me to "Look Lance!" as it cruised silently down Taneycomo, a slow, spreading, perfect wake forming behind, so…graceful and beautiful and cool, it was like nothing I’d ever seen. Overwhelming. I was stunned when I saw it.

I must have stared at the floating car until our car moved us out of view, and I must have talked about it for a long time afterward, as those are behaviors I exhibit to this day concerning new, amazing phenomena. I always hoped we’d see the car when traveling over the bridge. Every once in awhile, for several more years, I did see the car again, tilting and swanlike, leisurely lolling along, its passengers, The-Luckiest-People-in-the-World. Whenever I saw that car, my love for it grew. Yes the car, but not the car, too, more the experience, the amazement, still, after seeing it many more times. That is what I loved.

The impossible happening before my very eyes. That is what I loved about the car, and that is still what I love about life, about experience.

Branson, 1982

“There was nothing to fear and there was nothing in doubt.”
-Radiohead, “Pyramid Song.”

In the summer, our first summer to have cars and drive wherever whenever, most of my friends and I spent a great quantity of time stuck in traffic on Highway 76. Branson still is, but more so then, a long, narrow town stretching from east to west from the downtown area four miles to what was the city limit, which was about six or seven miles from Silver Dollar City, the local amusement park. Most of the fun was centered on “The Strip.” Go-karts, mini-golf, restaurants, country music shows, the Wal-Mart, and lots and lots of cars going three to ten miles an hour on a two lane highway, in the heat.

Sometimes it would take upwards of 45 minutes to an hour to travel only a couple of miles. We would have our windows rolled down, listening to the radio, waiting to move. Sometimes we’d yell to people traveling the opposite direction, also stalled in traffic, also making the best of the situation. And, even with the extra tourists milling around, we always saw someone we knew, meeting on the highway or the back roads, or stopped in the opposite lane. You can always see someone waving to you, or someone else, in Branson.

I worked at the Dairy Queen for $2.50 an hour, minus breaks and a 50% meal discount. My 1977, two door, Monte Carlo was orange, with bucket seats that swiveled. And when I wasn’t at work, we drove around town. Branson is built on and stretches over many hills, and when there was less or no traffic, we would zoom up and down the hills and curves of residential areas, much faster of course than we should have.

Some of the roads were so steep that, when it rained, they became impassable. An acquaintance crashed his car into a mobile home situated at the bottom of two steep hills that joined in a dangerous curve the locals called Billy Goat Hill. Every year, there were several severe or deadly crashes by young drivers who drove just a little too fast to handle the terrain. I too, crashed my car that year, six months after getting my license. Not seriously, but enough to add a percentile to the statistics of the hills and curves against inexperienced drivers.

But I’ll never forget that thrill, the feeling of my stomach dropping to touch my gonads, that floating feeling of hitting the crest of a downward curve, those narrow roads and near misses, climbing those hills… Absolute, delicious freedom to a 16-year-old who’d seen nothing but who thought opposite. I still sometimes think about the blessed innocence of growing up in Branson. The beauty all over the hills and valleys, the inherent trust of the people living there, the willingness to help a stranger out, to give someone the benefit of the doubt, are all attributes I took for granted. I mocked them, downplaying their value in exchange for how the rest of the unknown world lived, or how I imagined they did.

In Key West, I cursed my ignorance when my trust in new friends and acquaintances was unwarranted, resulting in some sort of stupidity, in whatever forms it assumed. I felt small and intimidated compared to those more sophisticated and worldly than myself. I resented not being more prepared for the harsh realities of my present circumstances. I felt, stupid, trusting, and naïve, and that was bad.

But now, years later, seeing so many different people blessed with less, grow up without, exist day to day not having that foundation of stability those long, languid, boring, innocent days growing up in the Ozarks provided, I do feel very lucky, indeed. My thoughts, my actions, reactions, behavior, and perspective are all firmly rooted in those Ozarks hills, driving around, bored, restless, or having fun, assured of my family’s love, not having any idea how much more I was given at birth for just having been born there. Now I have a clearer understanding of how much that love, those days, that life, have impacted the rest of my days. I am very lucky, indeed.

A year or so, after a friend’s suicide (Fragment from a larger story)

Now (1988)

It’s been over a year now and I still think of him often. I know ____ does, as every time we speak, he tells me. It’s what binds us together. He doesn’t cry over the phone, but he does come close. It’s been a year, and most of his friends are still reeling.

He comes to me during dreams based in the present, sometimes with people I’ve met since his death. He knows of recent events and songs I like, is rounded and up to date, but he never changes. Same hair, same clothes, and the same look in his eyes. And of course, he will always look that way.

A friend told me of her two girlfriends that were also close to him. They are still haunted by his ghost, and will be, in all probability, for quite some time. They dread his visits. One time, he appeared to them while they lay in the same bed, begging them to come with him. They woke up and yelled “Go away!” at him at the same time. They were both, according to my friend, shaken by the experience.

Honestly, I don’t know what the problem is. I go with him every time he asks.

Un-true blue

Note: In the original version of this story, the sexuality of the storyteller is different. I wrote this piece when I was in college, and not out yet. I didn’t have the strength to write my original idea, as my sexuality would have come into question. After my fears became irrelevant, I changed the ending in 1999 to my original intent.


“Who said I lied, because I never, I never, who said I lied because I never…”
-The Smiths, “Stop me if you’ve heard this before.”

“A man can tell a thousand lies, I’ve learned my lessons well…”
-Madonna, “Live to tell.”


1988 – “So it’s really over.

I hate to say ‘I toldyaso,’ but I knew it was coming. I just can’t believe it happened so fast. 28 glorious months down the tube. Sean must be devastated. She probably asked too much of him, like not to beat up (A) Her, (B) Photographers, (C) Her family and the smaller pets, or (D) All of the above. Jesus! What did she expect? I still can’t believe it’s over. I read all the details in the Enquirer, so the marriage is definitely splitsville.

Yeah, as a matter of fact, I do know Madonna.

Even though we grew up in the same lower-middle class neighborhood in Detroit, neither of us kept our accents. Madonna Louise Ciccone, daughter of Fred and Chester Ciccone, was born in 1958. Madonna’s mother Chester had a real complex about her name, and several years after Madonna’s birth changed it to Bill. The teasing stopped.

A beautiful girl considered homely by the whole neighborhood, Madonna could always be seen prancing around our building to music no one else heard. A future sign of stardom, perhaps? Maybe, or it might have been the fact that the Ciccone’s belonged to Detroit’s only sect for whirling Dervishes. Including Madonna, there were only five members. Being the youngest in the sect, Madonna soon became know as ‘Squirt Whirler.’ I remember how hard it was for her classmates to say ‘Red Rover, Red Rover, send Squirt Whirler right over,’ during recess. Those “urrr” sounds can be so draining on small children.

Yeah, I knew Madonna. She was raised by wolves.

I didn’t mention that before? Yeah, see, my family and hers went camping one weekend. I think Madonna was three. On this particular trip, we decided to camp near the U.S./Canadian border during that time of much diplomatic hostility between the two countries. Tension was high, and we thought for sure there’d be a war. In retrospect, it probably wasn’t the wisest thing to do, but my father and Madonna’s mother Bill liked to live dangerously.

Did I tell you they had an affair? Yeah, my dad ran off with Madonna’s mom, so technically, I’m Madonna’s half-brother, but we’re not that close. So to make a long story short, we’re cooking pasta (Madonna’s favorite) on dad’s Weber grill and Madonna wanders off into the forest toward the hostile Canadian border. Well, Madonna’s parents were so choked up about the whole deal they decide to look for her before they had dessert. So we organized a search party, looked for at least a good half-hour, gave up, and went home.

Madonna’s parents took about two weeks to adjust to her disappearance. They told my parents that sure, losing a child was terrible, but they were young and could have more kids. You know, when God hands you a lemon, make eggs. No, not eggs. I was just checking to see if you were paying attention. Of course they made lemonade. They did have more children, but none had the bright personality of Madonna. In fact, none of the other Ciccone children had personalities at all. They’re all accountants.

The one I felt bad for was Madonna. I mean, she was all of three years old, all alone, and probably (if she was even alive) in Canada! God! Do they even have indoor plumbing there?

Madonna was found wandering around, muttering about ice cream, by a pro-American family of Canadian Presbyterians. They raised her for about two years and would have kept her, but they happened to pass by her house one day on a visit to Detroit, after the tensions had ceased. “This is my house.” She said, and they let her out of the car. Madonna’s parents acted like nothing had happened. They enrolled her in school the very next day.

Madonna, though, had changed. She kept talking about the other family and her ‘brother’ Jimmy, who was a savant. She told me a savant was someone who was gifted with some rare ability, but who was also ‘Developmentally Disabled.’ She told me that Jimmy had Down’s Syndrome, but could play any song he heard, note for note, on the piano. She told me Jimmy never had a lesson in his life, and couldn’t read music, but that didn’t stop him from playing anything from Mozart to the Beatles on her ‘new family’s’ Steinway. The experience of living with Jimmy touched her deeply. Later, she wrote about those times in the song ‘Like a Virgin.’

I didn’t see Madonna much after that time. We kind of went our separate ways. I was busy with sports and drama, and she threw herself into work with her Dervish youth group. Being the only member, it wasn’t hard work, but it kept her busy.

Then we went to different high schools and never saw each other. The next thing I know, she’s one the American charts at #22 with a bullet, singing ‘Holiday,’ paving the way for the Madonna-mania that’s still sweeping the country. I always knew she’d be a star. I knew she’d be a BIG star, at that.

She came to see me once, Madonna did. ‘True Blue’ had just topped the six million mark, when this bright red stretch-limo pulls up outside my house. Personally, I think her first album is her finest work. Her lyrics are inspired although, at the time she was actually illiterate, but that’s not important.

Well, Madonna’s driving, and she’s got on a red chauffeur’s hat that matches her bright red lipstick, and she honks the horn and says, ‘Hop in!’ So I did, and we drove around the block a couple of times and she hands me a ‘True Blue’ tape and says, ‘This True Blue’s for you! That rhymes; get it?’ I thanked her for the tape and had her drop me off at my house.

I didn’t want to take too much of her time, since ‘Wheel of Fortune’ was on. Vanna White isn’t half as good looking as Madonna, and she can’t sing, but I watch anyway. So she drives off, and only then do I realize that she didn’t autograph the tape. She probably thought sine we’re so close I wouldn’t want one, but it would have been a nice gesture.

And now this: Her career is skyrocketing while her marriage crumbles. Nero fiddled while Rome burnt, I guess. Maybe I’ll give her a call just to make sure she’s getting along all right…” A pause. He surveys his companion. He lights a cigarette. A long, fluid drag, and then, “So…would you like to come back to my apartment?”

In a tone devoid of any kindness, he says, “I’d rather not know you or fuck you.” He then put out his cigarette, quickly paid the bartender, and left. Then the man was, again, alone at the bar. He took a drag from his own cigarette, stared at the water droplets forming on the side of his mug, and nothing more was said.

Because he had heard many versions of the story before, the bartender said nothing, also.






 

1990

1.  To say no one understands me is an oversimplification of a very complex problem. I’m sure there are people who could understand me; I just don’t know them.

2.  “I can’t do this. This is my time, selfish and tranquil, mental surrender to the sensation; to let it all go.” He said. “Don’t do this. Don’t make me write when’ I’m high.”

October 24, 1990

1.  Now sleep.

2. The time between sleep and real, those few seconds of absolute, almost conscious fluidity…
It’s what I’ve come to depend on.
Like you.

3.  When I wake up on accident from a deep, deep sleep,
And move and stretch involuntarily,
I cannot remember my positioning.
Then I think about it.
Then I’m awake.
Shit, of course: It’s Monday

Rats.

1990, in the woods, near Branson

“There’s a pain,” he slowly says, as we light our cigarettes, “in the tip of my lip.”

Could be a zit. Or maybejustmaybe, could be cancer from the cigarettes we just lit.

“Hard livin’ lies right on the edge of hypochondria, don’t it?” He said, puffin’ and a grinnin’, tickled at his funny.

The night sky shone with stars. The leaves rustled in the wind. The temperature was perfect on that night when we were still obstinately, invincibly young. No one was dying, not like now.

We smoked and talked politics, religion, and music, I’m sure, as it was of what we usually spoke. All the while, he was unaware that the cells in his body had already, imperceptibly, begun shifting on their axis. Have mine?

Life has become more precious, and yet, I continue to do myself harm.

The natural steps

2001

I have had, like many others, a love/hate relationship with my hometown. There are a lot of things about the town and surrounding area to either love or to hate. While the negative aspects of life in Branson are very real, there is a lot to be said of what is good about the town, what makes the experience unique to the people who visit, and special for those who live there. The natural steps are special.

The Ozark Mountains are the oldest mountain range in North America. Random House Webster’s Dictionary says, “A group of low mountains in S. Missouri, N. Arkansas, and NE Oklahoma. Also called Ozarks.” Yup. There ya have it. If’n ya don’t look too hard.

Late October 1991

The natural steps are less than a mile off Highway 76. Traveling west, one would turn left at Fall Creek Road, drive less than 200 yards, and turn left again onto a set of ruts leading up and over a hill. A four-wheel drive vehicle can go the entire distance, whereas a car can travel maybe a quarter mile further before the ruts become impassible. Then those in said cars must get out and walk, which is actually for the best, anyway.

We park and walk. The grass was still green considering the lateness of season. It contrasted with the red, gold, brown, and orange leaves barely hanging on the trees or falling about us. The ruts we follow are a bit steeper, and the path always reminds me of an enchanted forest, alive and brimming with life, its ancient voice low and comforting. The ruts ultimately lead to a clearing, and to the right, a rock cabin and a wood shed sit, jus’ lookin’, off’n the distance.

We walk to the door and knock loudly. No response. We knock again. We wait. The old man, Lyle, shuffles to the door.

“Mr. Owen?” I say. “We were wonderin’ if it’d be alright if we walked down yer steps.” He said that’d be fine, as long as we clean up after ourselves. His eyes are sharp and blue. He smiled, turned, and shuffled back into the afternoon darkness of his cabin.

We walk towards the bluff. The panorama widens as we approach. Isolated rocks jut from the earth, the grass around the cabin is less green, more flaxen, and the leaves are turning as far as the eye can see. The bluff drops sharply, but it is not extremely steep, and can be traversed. Lake Taneycomo winds through the county, sweeping by the bluff, dominant in the panorama. Its river like form winds gracefully out of view in either direction, as boats float slowly by.

Four men, including Mr. Owen built the steps in the early 1930’s. The steps themselves conform to the rocky, tree-covered, and somewhat treacherous terrain leading down the hill, utilizing natural straightaway paths connecting one flight to the next. Because they were built before construction of the Table Rock Dam, the steps stop about three-quarters of the way down, as that was original water line for the White River was much higher.

Now, when I say “hill,” I’m not talking about a bunch of little wuss hills. I’m referring to big, steep hills, the remnants of big old mountains. The Ozarks ruled before the Rockies were even born. But now, they have eroded away to their present foundations, the hills and hollers forming the foundations for little towns dotting the region.

We walked down the steps, traveled paths to their end, indirectly climbed the inclines (if they were too steep to ascend directly), and came upon a dried up waterfall. An empty pond sat 50 to 75 below us. Vertigo tingled in my knees and in the back of my head as I peered over the edge. I tried to imagine what this scene was like in the rainy spring months. Water sheeting downward, impacting, exploding, frothing, re-grouping, and continuing its path.

Sensing our presence, the animals remained quiet. Footfalls and dead breaking branches were the only sounds, other than our intermittent conversation. My friend was leaving for Tennessee soon, and I was leaving for London. Since we still didn’t, at this time, know our individual attempts into the outer world would fail, and that we would see each other within a few months, our remaining time then was very significant. We talked and walked, with long periods of silence between expressed thoughts. My friend thinks a lot, also, so we wondered, out loud and to ourselves, about what our future might hold. No matter what happened, though, to the end of what horizon we chose, these hills, these formidable old mountains, would remain here, waiting for our return.

The hills become a part of you when you live in Branson or the Ozarks. Straight road is uncommon, if not a rarity. Driving in the Ozarks, one learns to roll and adjust to the constantly changing terrain. An analogy to Life’s road is illustrated very well along an Ozark road. It can be curvy and sudden, slow or too fast, steep or impassable, deadly and stunningly beautiful all at the same time. You could drive off the most beautiful cliff you ever did see. But hey; then you’re dead.

The hills demand you pay attention. But the trade off is well worth it. The experience is exhilarating, but you must pay attention. The thrill of it all, driving those winding, hilly roads, is, or can be, like life itself.

Branson is home. Always will be. And every time I return, even 10 years later, I feel as if the hills are happy that one of their own has returned, if only for a little while. They continue to wait as I continue my travels. My people also wait for me. I’m so thankful they do.

Excerpts from the e-mail “You know you’re from Missouri when…”

You’ve never met any celebrities.
Everyone in your family has been on a “float trip.”
“Vacation” means driving to Silver Dollar City, Worlds of Fun, or Six Flags.
You’ve seen all the biggest bands 10 years after they were popular.
You measure distance in minutes and hours rather than miles.
“Down south” to you means Arkansas.
You know several people who’ve hit a deer.
Your school classes were closed due to cold.
Your school classes were closed due to heat.
You know what a “party cove” is.
You’ve never had to switch from heat to AC in the same day.
You know what’s knee-high by the 4th of July.
You see a car running in the parking lot at the store with no one in it, no matter what time of year.
You know in your heart that Mizzou can beat Nebraska in football.
You end sentences with an un-necessary preposition. Ex: “Where’s my coat at?”
You install security lights on your house and garage and leave both unlocked.
You carry jumper cables in your car and think everyone else should, too.
You went to skating parties as a kid.
The local paper covers national and international headlines on one page, but needs six for sports.
You’ll pay for your kids to go to college unless they want to go to KU.
You think deer season is a national holiday.
You know Concordia is halfway between Kansas City and Columbia, Columbia is halfway between Kansas City and St. Louis, and the Warrenton Outlet Mall is halfway between Columbia and St. Louis.
You’ve said, “It’s not the heat; it’s the humidity!”
You can’t think of anything better than sitting on the porch in the middle of summer during a thunderstorm.
You know all four seasons: Almost Summer, Summer, Still Summer, and Construction.
You know it another Missourian is from the Bootheel, Ozarks, Eastern, Middle or Western Missouri as soon as they open their mouths.
You know Harry S. Truman, Walt Disney, and Mark Twain are from Missouri.
You think a traffic jam is 10 cars waiting to pass a tractor.


Yup, I’m from Missouri all right.

Via Neptune, Branson 1992 (1999)

“The number seven vibrates to the planet Neptune. It represents spirituality, sensitivity, sympathy, and mystery. Seven is the number of illusion and delusion, sometimes deception – but also the number of healing miracles, faith, -- and dreams that come true.”

-Linda Goodman, Star Signs

“There is, in every Capricorn/Snake, the gift of the supernatural. These people could probably live a very full life just following hunches and answering premonition’s call. It’s spooky but true. There is a foresight here unequalled by any other sign. Intuition is even too mild a word. The Capricorn/Snake senses trends, dangers, political movements, events of all natures.”

-Suzanne White, The New Astrology, (Capricorn/Snake)

“You’re lying in your bed, going to sleep. Suddenly a jolt runs through your body. You just ‘caught yourself falling asleep.’ Where were you two seconds before the jolt? What were you? Astrologically, the answer lies with Neptune. This is the planet of trance, of meditation, of dreams. It represents your doorway into the ‘Not-Self.’”

-Steven Forrest, “The Sky Within” (Personal Birthchart interpretation)

I had, in the fall of 1992, a rare ability, or delusion, of being able to hear thousands of disjointed voices as I lay on my side, in my bed, almost sleeping. Only, though, as I lay on my left side, the right ear being the receptacle for this phenomenon. This experience freaked me out, and I told only a couple of people about it. At that time, I was heavily into conspiracy theories and other manic interests. I figured spreading this little nugget of weirdness around would be a little too much for some of my more conservative friends. So I didn’t talk about it very much. For a long while, I didn’t know what to make of it. The ability wasn’t something I had wished for, nor had I even thought to wish for a perception of this nature.

The sound was like an incomprehensible number of radios receiving multiple signals broadcasting them all to me simultaneously. The result was an unheard of cacophony, no one transmission clear enough to determine a meaning. I could determine the lower bass of men’s voices and the trebles of females. Their cadences of speech began to form as one, becoming unified, pausing and resuming, assuming a rhythm of sorts.

The first time this happened.

The apartment was quiet, save for the buzzing of the refrigerator. The central air blower would turn on intermittently at 70 degrees, but wasn’t on at the moment. I was alone, sleeping on the futon, preparing to sleep, really, when the sounds gradually became apparent, as opposed to rushing into consciousness all at once. I’m sure my mind was running fast, as my mind ran fast continually during that period of life, the ability to slow and calm my thoughts still unknown. Lots of insomnia then, sometimes, still now.

These sounds washed over my perception not immediately, or in waves, but with the gradual urgency or water boiling in a teapot, its whistle integrating itself into the realm of sounds, then surging to the forefront, demanding attention, action. I bolted up. Silence. My nerves tingled and my legs and torso froze in a 90-degree angle, eyes darting around the room and into the living room, processing the unfamiliar…

The light over the kitchen sink and the apartment’s loud silence assured me that there was no intruder, and my safety was still intact. I didn’t move. My heart thumped. My eyes stayed wide, panic and breathing slowly subsiding to acceptable levels.

Calm down now… I was asleep, and this was just a dream. Ok, Lance, lay back down. Nothing is wrong. “Just my imagination, running away with me…”

I could hear my heartbeat gradually slowing by the forced rhythm of my deep, in through the nose, out through the mouth breaths. I lay back down, my hyper-awareness still not picking up anything but silence from nearby apartments next to and below mine. Really, Lance, it’s cool. Get some sleep.

A few minutes later, when I was sufficiently calm, it happened again. This indeed, was a curiosity. I raised my head again, quickly. Nothing. It was gone. Piqued, I now made an effort to listen. I laid back down again, this time breathing slowly, anticipating…

The sounds were incomprehensible, everything a jumble. No secret messages, no directives, a dense mass of voices and sounds barely audible, but evident at the outskirts of some sense beyond my normal empirical resources. These disembodied voices talking to the others on the end of the line, in unfamiliar languages, no frame of reference. The cadences, as I mentioned before, were the most striking.

Voices, conversations, and vibratory waves traveling the world, a remnant from their point of origin. They continued long after their speakers stopped speaking, nowhere to go but on. Each voice like AM radio waves rolling over the hills and valleys of earth, now, all rolling together, or crashing over the other. I’m listening to the ocean of all sound.

The sounds became inaudible after awhile, my strain to hear more, ultimately, their demise. I eventually slept. Over the next week or so, this phenomenon visited me again, and again, with no more clarity that my aforementioned description of events. I tried to pay more attention, to be more alert, but without success.

Then, nothing.

Two years later, when I lived in Key West, I would get so stoned in the apartment I shared with ___, I sometimes was able to walk or pace the apartment and experience a parallel version of what I have described. Except there, the tones and cadences contained the undercurrent of wrenching sadness or pain and were easily blocked out by my turning on the stereo, watching TV, or diverting my attention elsewhere. I chalked these times up to pot or possibly, the onset of insanity. These sounds scared me, and I tried to pay them no heed.

But now, years later, with the distance of geographical and chronological objectivity, I give these experiences more weight, more credibility. I don’t care that some might view these perceptions as crazy. They happened to me, not anyone else. I am able to sense things others can’t. Are they real? You can’t tell me. You don’t know either.  (2008) I know more of what "this" was/is.  I do believe these experiences are tangible, but cannot define them.

Chiron in Pisces

“When Chiron is in Pisces, there is a crisis over connecting with the God force, the universal oneness. This native is hearing the siren call from across the sea, seeing the Will-O-the-Wisp in the swamp, is hearing the flute of Pan or Kokopelli – he/she hears different music than most of us…

The most fascinating synchronicity in this whole astrological evolution exists in the fact that the group born between 1961-68 with Chiron in Pisces almost all have Pluto in Virgo opposite Chiron in Pisces. This means that the group of future healers will walk the rainbow path in their lifetimes because their sense of Pluto is as an evolutionary force to be used for total clarity. Already out of nine in my files, four are healers…

We are only beginning to see the powers available, because those with Chiron in Pisces experience their first square very late. High levels of consciousness seem to be spontaneous, and the other five who have not shown their potential yet are using drugs. The high drug usage of this group is probably an attempt to avoid manifesting who they are…

They need to be carefully watched and guided when they experience the first Chiron Square, or they may try to check out with drugs…

Those who experience it late so far have demonstrated a strange tendency: because Chiron is in Pisces, they think they know about the other worlds and the interface from this place to the other side, but they do not know this bridge until they experience the first square. They feel left out by spiritual forces, which they intuitively know about. Help them. They will be our teachers about the essence that materializes from the planet Neptune. They will experience Chiron opposite Chiron when Chiron is in Virgo September 1993 to September 1995, just as Chiron is also conjuncting natal Pluto in Virgo. This is the period before the ultimate stress point of the potential apocalypse of 1996-98. These individuals will be many of the guides who will help us synchronize the energy to a higher level of vibration instead of bringing destruction in manifestation.”

-Barbara Hand Clow, Excerpt from Chiron, Rainbow Bridge Between the Inner
And Outer Planets.

Key West cats, September 1993

The night we arrived in Key West, my roommate let his cat out of the cat carry-on to sleep with us in the 1975 Volkswagen van we had driven from Missouri. We left the windows open and the cat escaped, never to be seen again. Santeria? Maybe. That would have been cool. Probably not, though.

The cat shouldn’t have been too hard to find, as she was HUGE and fairly recognizable. Fabulously fat, in a very downtown Manhattan, faux-sophisticated with cheezer roots sort of way. But that cat was gone, without a trace. Back to New York, maybe? After all, you can’t transplant a cat used to the glamour of New York to Key West without some serious turbulence. Maybe she figured out what was coming and split. I would have.

Or maybe… she became the obese Queen of one of the packs of evil cats who only come out after sunset. They stalk their prey seemingly whenever and wherever they please, blood from the last kill still caked on the whiskers they’ve neglected to clean. Their preferable prey is, of course, young and pretty, as the young ones are most pleasing to their palate. They form two groups, a smaller reconnaissance two or threesome, and a larger pack laying in wait in the absolute blackness of the shadows, which engulf smaller streets entirely.

The re-con pack promises knowledge of food and mating, and lures the hapless victim(s) further from the others, into the recesses, cajoling and inviting. “Real cat Fun!” A sure thing. When the victim is at the appropriate location, the whole pack attacks quickly and without remorse.

The cats themselves have become slaves to the kill, not enjoying victory, killing for habit, and now, basic need. They kill again and again, or, at least, they try. You see, even though these cats are killers, they’re not really that good at the hunt. The magnetic/electric force of the island and the repetition of the ritual have dulled their senses and abilities.

Sometimes they cannot quite convince an innocent into the recesses, or because they are too drunk on the blood from previous kills, their prey will escape. And this is humiliating to the killers. The cats are most visible at this time, stepping from the shadows to mewl loudly in self-beration. The evil accomplished even in the recent past is not a comfort. Must kill –every night…every night.

These situations replay themselves all over Key West with startling frequency. The results, with little variation, are the same. It’s quite a show, and if you’re observant, it’s not hard to see. Look for them; watch them in action.

Open your eyes; it replays itself nightly. Don’t try to stop it; you can’t. Learn from your observations. Someone should. Lord knows the cats won’t.


So maybe what was to be our cat became their Queen. Maybe she was their victim. Or, maybe, she made her way up to Florida Street and adopted some kind old large woman, hip to the upward exchange of her guardianship.

September 10, 1993

The morning after the cat ran off, we began to search for a place to live. In the morning, my roommate’s ex-girlfriend’s neighbor’s head popped over the fence as I sat in the yard, and spat “You can’t stay here! Don’t think you can stay here!” Really? We can’t live in the fucking yard?

“I know—we’re finding something today.” I said, taking the route of conciliation. Her scowling face receded behind the fence, muttering. We began our search with the realtors.

No rentals were available on our first try, but “Boys, are you new in town? Do you need bartending jobs?” Did ooze out of our realtor’s mouth. He had “connections” to a new bar opening on the island. Yeah, they needed bartenders, and strippers. “Did I mention strippers? They really need strippers, too…” He said, grinning and leering altruistically, sitting behind his desk, sweating, in his fat right hand, a business card.

The air conditioner produced only noise. The air was stale, filled with old coffee odors and the carbon dioxide residue of the sleazy fuck handing us a business card we’d never use, with a number we soon forgot. We left with only a small lift in our spirits. The sun blazes once we are again outside. There are few people around. All have the faces of strangers. We continue to look for home.

September 12, 1993

We have moved into a one bedroom with a loft and a deck for $1100 dollars a month. My name is the only one on the lease. So now it’s time to find a job and go to work. The heat and humidity are shocks to the system; they work in tandem, draining and relentless. I showered this day, dried off, dried off again, put on my clothes, left the house, and by the bottom of a flight of steps, was again drenched in perspiration. So, after one more change of clothes, I began to look for a job.

Nobody, it seemed, was hiring. I went from business to business with no luck. So after several rejections, I began to wander up and down Duval Street. The sunlight was extremely bright in Key West, uncomfortably so. I noticed that right off. Ok, so far, Key West is hellishly hot, equally humid, intensely bright, and completely employed. Great, now what?

The laughter and shouting was what drew my attention first. I turned left to look at the intersection of Duval and Southard just as the drunken couple on the moped bit it hard on the cobblestone and asphalt. They hit a bump on Duval and laid it down on the right side through the intersection. Their legs took the full skidding force of impact. Hamburger on a grater. I heard the people around me, myself included, gasp simultaneously.

Then there was that weird silence that directly follows situations such as this, the split moments before rational directives are formed and protective instincts take over. It’s that serene, surreal, collective shock of all participants and observers witness to and effected by this sudden turn of events. Did this really happen? Yes, as the images remain when I reopen my eyes.

Some people run to the moped, some run into stores, presumably to call for help, and others like myself stand and stare. Only seconds before, the riders were laughing as the stoplight at Duval and Southard turned yellow. Only seconds before, their lives were very different. I walked home, no more searching today, thankful to be safe from physical harm, for at least one more day.

I was watching TV when they went into surgery.

Samuel, September 1993

It was just like a movie, or a dream. Everything moved so much slower as I biked my way towards his house. Sunset was upon us and I was not paying any attention to sounds, visually drinking in the totally new landscape of Key West. The pastels, the florae, the buildings, and the people staring back at me in a way they never did back in Missouri.

Then there was his house. He answered the door and kissed me, with confidence and submission. Melting and molten all at once, he was beautiful physically, like Harry Hamlin. As dusk darkened into night, he put on The The’s “Love is stronger than death,” and we sat on the couch, facing the pool, the music a complimentary background for our passions.

Like a damn movie, or a dream I tell ya. He had everything down perfectly. The scenery, the mechanics, the dialogue…and he practiced endlessly. As I found out later, every day, almost, always with someone new. Bummer. Samuel slept with many, many, many people. Beautiful Samuel was the first of many questionable sexual decisions made during my stay in Key West.

Repaying her father, Key West, September 1993

“Daddy’s home, to stay.”
-The Stray Cats, “Daddy’s home.”

I went to smoke, and at the shop, everyone smoked out front. I could look down the sidewalk and see that all the employees of the various shops were also outside, smoking. September is a slow month on the island. There were no tourists to attend to, so no one did too much but smoke.

Some of them would stand in the doorway, others talked amongst themselves, and others sat near the street on the big plant boxes. I would sit inside the shop to escape the heat sometimes, but mostly I liked being outside. Key West was very new and I wasn’t oriented to the day to day yet. So nothing at all was still new and exciting to me.

I noticed the girl coming towards me. She walked slowly, her feet crossing over the other without being pigeon-toed, each step dreamily slow. She had short hair and glasses and a tee shirt and shorts. I smoked by the door this day, the music from inside loud enough to be overwhelming as she approached. I exhaled smoke as she asked me something lost in a laugh, consumed by the music.

“I’m sorry, what?” I said, thinking she would repeat her question. She looked at me for two beats, and with her right hand, tried to slap me in the testicles. She was quick, like a fast-pitch softball pitcher. But my reflexes were faster, and my move to deflect prevented serious harm.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I said, shocked at the surreal, sudden provocation. I took a step back and she giggled. She turned to the right and kept walking. I was unsure of a course of action, as the situation was so unexpected. So I stood in the doorway, watching her move slowly down Duval. Two shops down, she succeeded in her actions because the man she hit hadn’t been paying attention to what had happened to me just 30 seconds before.

He was as shocked as I was, and she kept walking dreamily on, thinking, I assume, of her father.

The Star-Maker, Key West, September 1993

“Life in your New World, turning round and round, making some sense where there’s no sense at all…”
-Icehouse, “No promises.”

I smoked a lot, and had recently made the acquaintance of several other nearby employees and owners of the shops on the 600 and 700 blocks of Duval, as we all smoked outside. Casual, hi, howyadoin’ types of people that, were it not for cigarettes, I probably would not have met. Smoking was the immediate bond between us. I looked forward to talking with one or the other to pass the time, so as not to think about my present situation. We had left stable jobs in stable Branson to explore the world and all its wonders, and now here I was, in Key West, bringing in five dollars an hour selling t-shirts and bathing suits. I wrote lots of postcards in the beginning, lying to my friends about the exciting times I wasn’t having in the hopes that those times were soon to come.

September was oppressively hot and still, and the act of cigarette smoking was not that pleasurable to my lungs. But my hands were busy and the nicotine was a welcome embrace to my system when nothing else was happening. The man was in his early 50’s by appearance. He had brown hair and a mustache. He gave me the once over, and I saw him look at my crotch. He approached and struck up a conversation.

“I must say you are very beautiful.”
“Thank you.” I said, feeling a tad off-guard at his forthrightness.
“Are you making enough money?”
“I’m workin’ on it,” not really sure what he meant.

“You know, if I had your looks, I’d be sitting on a gold mine.”
“Thanks.” I said again, now guarded.
“Listen to me and think about what I said. I said, ‘If I had your looks, I’d be sitting on a gold mine.’ Think about it, let your mind expand on it.” He stared directly at me, into me, his gaze unblinking, focused and dark. I looked down and took a drag.

“I’ll do that.” I said, now thoroughly creeped out, not making eye contact again.
“Yeah, you do that.” He said. “I’ll be around.”

For the longest time, I was unsure of what this exchange was, other than some odd come-on. Later, I heard about the pornographers from Miami that were always on the lookout for new talent. Then everything made sense. He never came back around; my promising career in movies given to someone prettier, more willing to play ball, someone less naïve.

He was the possessor of men’s looks and their bodies. He made them famous and empty simultaneously, their gold becoming his.

Scott, late September 1993

We were both from Missouri. I trusted him almost immediately. We became friends. He was the day manager at my first job in Key West.

My bosses had two shops less than 50 yards from the other, diagonal to the other. The smaller was all black and white clothes and was totally cool, circa 1985. The larger store sold more upscale clothing, pricey jeans and leather jackets, some clubby shirts, and lots and lots and lots of underwear and swimsuits. Many thongs were sold to people whose physiques did not merit said thongs. But hey, it’s their world—I’m just the guy behind the counter selling them a thong.

I usually worked the smaller store by myself, while two or three employees would be scheduled for the larger store. Scott always worked at the larger store. He’d come from St. Louis and had run into a little bit of trouble up there, but wasn’t too specific. He was very handsome, with black hair, dark brown eyes, great facial structure, and quietly intense. He’d come in early (7 a.m.) to do the books, and stay all day, sometimes leaving as late as 10 p.m.

He wasn’t allowed to drive, for whatever reason. I didn’t ask. Work was very important to him, and he always worked hard. Sometimes, though, he’d call me when nothing was going on, and tell me to lock up and come over to the other store. Then he’d give me money to go to the bar across the street and pick up some beers. But this was only if we weren’t busy. We’d then stand outside the bigger store, drink beer, and watch people walk by. He was a cool boss.

Both stores had fairly kickass sound systems, as the owners liked and wanted loud music for “ambience.” This was fine by me. Loud music took my mind off the disorienting change of my day to day life. Less than a month ago, Branson was still the reality, and I had no idea what life would be like here. I certainly hadn’t counted on this.

Everyone is fucked up all the time. It’s a small island, so no one has to drive anywhere, and it’s easy to overdo whatever you do when you walk. Crazy drunks. Vomit on the sidewalks in the morning. So many homeless people on Duval Street at night.

It’s dirty here, and so fucking hot! I sweat more than normal, so I’m always wet and uncomfortable. I’ve had a low-grade fever for about a week. Everything is more difficult because it’s unfamiliar.

My roommates both work at the Copa. One is bartending and the other is working the door. They’re not making any money. Neither am I.

I make $5.25 an hour. Our rent is $1100.00 a month, plus utilities. Since we’ve just moved here, we need outrageous deposits for the phone and electric, not to mention first and last month’s rent and $550 for a security deposit. Our air-conditioner was built before anyone thought of energy conservation. It’s always on, yet it’s never cool in the apartment.

Our deck looks out onto an alley and a small parking lot. We can look into the second floor of the Heartbreak Hotel, serving those arriving to or departing from Key West, who will not, or did not make it here. Checking in there must taint one, in some unseen way. Lots of anger resounding from those “hotel rooms.” The smell of crank would drift across the alley, permeating our deck experience with that miserable burnt chemical odor.

There always seemed to be a fight in progress. The screams would always escalate in intensity. Although we could hear them, we could never really tell what whoever was fighting was fighting about. Should we call the cops? No way. Those pissed off, abusive crank maniacs from God Knows Where we might rat-out can look right through our windows into our place, too. No, no thanks. More crank ‘ill cure what ails ‘em.

Tourist season hasn’t begun, so the only people out are locals. It’s their vomit I’ve been seeing. Most of the people who are out during September must be alcoholics. They have to be. I’ve never seen so many drunks in such a small concentration. Long past fun, most are aggressive or pathetic.

Lots of coke around here, too. I was pulled off the dance floor at the Copa while trying to fend off a guy’s coke-laden fingers aiming straight for my nose. He was extremely offended when I declined he drug-filled hand. I tried to be conciliatory, saying “I don’t do coke. If you have a joint, I’ll smoke it with you…” But it didn’t work. He left in a huff, and got back behind the bar. Everything is so different here.

Rent is due October first. We are two hundred dollars short. I get paid in two days, on October second. That is too late and I know it’s too late. Our landlord was very specific. Late days are charged. And the bank puts a six-day freeze on cashing newcomer’s checks. I don’t have enough money now, and certainly not enough to incur late fees. There isn’t a solution.

I start to freak out, crying alone in the smaller clothing store. I call Scott, then close the shop for a few minutes, and meet him out in front of the bigger store. Would the owners go for an advance on my check? He asks if everything is all right, and I start to overflow, crying despite my efforts.

I tell him about my (our) financial situation and rent being due, and I try to restrain my emotions, but it’s still not working. He became very calm and told me to wait there for a moment. He went to the back of the store and came back with $200 dollars. It’s his money. “Pay me back whenever you can. Whenever. Really.”

Wow. This guy who barely knows me, but trusts me enough to loan me money. Here, in Key West, where I’ve already learned not to trust anyone, he trusts me. Things will be all right. My panic subsided as I realized I’d made a friend, my first true friend, in Key West. I paid him back eight days later, the first opportunity I had.

Wednesday night, October 1993

“We are who we are. We’re just like anybody else.”
-The Other Ones, “We are who we are.”


She told me a story once, about growing up in the boot heel of Missouri, before he became a transsexual. His uncle was a clock maker and repairman, and there were over one hundred clocks in his shop. He visited often, as his uncle was non-judgmental about how he was different from the rest of his family. Sometimes they would wind as many clocks as they could, the alarms and chimes and ticking one giant, cacophonous, beautiful sound.

His family hated the way he was. His effeminate nature, his original thoughts, and his general behavior frightened them. But his uncle was good to him. When he died, he took one of the clocks as a memento.

He tried not to think about growing up in Missouri. This was difficult, though, as those were his formative years, like it or not. He went back a couple of years before, in 1989, this time as a drag queen. The experience wasn’t pleasant. He had not gone back or spoken with his family since.

She had good pot and needed to talk sometimes. She, I, and a guy who had been a professional photographer in New York had come over to the apartment, taking a break from the Wednesday night ritual of dancing at the Copa. She kept rolling joints and telling me about how great Key West was as opposed to the narrowness of Missouri. The photographer sat and listened, contentedly stoned and intrigued about how different life could be in the mid-west as opposed to the East Coast. The photographer had had a promising career until manic depression made him unreliable, not worth hiring.

I was really uncomfortable with my first impressions of the transsexual. She screamed in my face as well as the face of our mutual acquaintance during a drunken introduction. Later I realized it was just her exuberant way of saying hello. “Ahhhhhhh!” She had shrieked, rolling her head around her shoulders, arms extended upward.

She said sometimes she would wind the clock and think of her uncle. She stroked the long blond hair of the photographer who sat next to her, who still listened intently. It was 3 a.m. when we got back to the bar; and most of the people had already cleared out. The transsexual disappeared when the photographer and I went for a drink. I saw her out the next night and asked her where she’d gone. She said she’d gone to another bar, looking for someone. But she didn’t say who.

Hurricane Andrew – Key West, October 1993

Barometric pressure drops. The winds intensify. The clouds darken. The coming storm is at hand… Hurricane Andrew smashed into South Florida in 1992 with furious natural vengeance. South Floridians who lived through the experience will never forget the destruction, the devastation, the aftermath of Andrew. The next year, still new to the Keys, I met Hurricane Andrew in his human incarnation.

I made the acquaintance of Ray 10 days to two weeks before Fantasy Fest in October of 1993. We worked together at two clothing stores on Duval Street. He was 32, 5’10, strawberry blonde hair with green eyes, chiseled features, and beautiful teeth. He was very attractive and ambiguous regarding his sexuality. He emitted major “Is he or isn’t he?” vibes, and flirted enigmatically with whoever came into the stores. I really hoped he was gay, as I was almost instantly smitten.

Ray was a fast talker. Armed with a firm, learned grasp of the language, 150 beats-per-minute staccato/articulate delivery, and an amazing Intel-inside, mega co-processor memory, Ray could really steer a discussion. A rapid-fire onslaught of charm, a smattering of facts, and great heaps of shit, he never ceased to amaze, either. He could and did talk with people from all over the country about their club scenes, the arts, escoterica, etc., plumbing the depths of his unlimited conversational wellspring. He talked constantly.

When we were alone, he talked about being a gigolo, kicking cocaine in Honolulu, past sex partners, jacking off for money from and in front of very rich men, yachts, after-hours clubs in New York, and other weird and personal things I won’t mention here, with such velocity that, the more he talked, the more shadowy he became. He was intense and charming and intelligent and glamorous and charismatic and sinister. And his whole trip zipped along at 90 miles an hour. Always. He was trouble, and I was completely transfixed.

We kissed once. We had met for drinks earlier, gotten very drunk, when Ray said he had to meet someone and would I like to come along. Sure, I had said, without much hesitation. We walked east, towards an affluent cluster of large houses.

During our walk, Ray told me about the wife of the mob guy that he had started sleeping with a couple of days earlier. She had come into the store with her husband, but he didn’t stay long. When he left, she flirted purposefully, gave him her number, and told him to call later that day, which he did. And that’s where we going.

“I don’t know about this,” I said. He said everything was cool and not to worry. He was having fun, and she gave him a lot of money for sex, so no problem. Did I want to join in? No, no thank you. “Maybe I should go…” He wanted me to at least walk him to the house, maybe look at the inside. “The house is fucking beautiful, Lance. You really should see it.”

And then we were there. We went through a gate into a darkened courtyard and followed a stone path to the side of the house. The house was beautiful on the inside, immaculately furnished, and well lit. Someone very rich owned this house. We stood in the shadows before he went in, talking for a moment, when he told me I was a good person and that I probably shouldn’t be hanging out with someone like him. Which enticed me even more, of course.

The air was humid and still, and though it was late in the evening, October’s heat still remained. I stayed quiet for the most part, saying nothing other than variations of “Are you sure you want to do this?” There was no turning back, though. He wanted to go.

Then he kissed me. His hands were on my cheeks, his kiss very tender. He said “You’re a nice person. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I was shocked and pleasantly surprised by the kiss, but saddened that he was leaving to go have sex with someone else.

I was fascinated that he seemed to have no conscience about any of his actions, and that charm alone had carried him this far without any major repercussions. He seemed to be a very lucky person. Nothing bad happened to Ray when he slept with the mobster’s wife, and he was a couple hundred dollars richer for the experience, so he was happy with the outcome. I was beginning to become concerned about Ray’s developing picture. His real colors were more…careless/dangerous/turbulent than I had romanticized.

A few nights later, for whatever reason, Ray flipped out and spent all his paycheck on liquor and crack, clicked into gonzo mode, and headed for the clothing store. He was scheduled to work that night, but five hours earlier. Two or three people always worked the bigger store, and one person worked the smaller store. Since the shops were located diagonally from each other, I could see into the bigger shop from across the street. I was outside smoking when Ray went inside.

The next few minutes was like watching a SNL skit come to life. Without hearing the dialogue, I could see the hand and arm gestures of conflict from both Ray and the two employees. Then, without context, Ray jumped onto a glass display case containing sunglasses. He wanted to do a propeller spin to the floor, he said later. So in the course of a cigarette, I see him enter, wave his hands wildly, and then he was standing on top of the glass case, nothing above his mid thigh visible. Then, in that split second, instead of jumping, he broke through the glass. By the time I realized what was happening, there was nothing to do but watch him drop.

For all of the event’s suddenness, Ray remained balanced. It was a struggle, him twisting backward, jumping out of the case, then righting himself perpendicular at the last moment, glass and mirror and reflected light falling all around those beautiful legs. I heard the crash from across the street, even though the larger store’s doors were closed. I went back inside. Should I call the owners?

No need, as Ray had run across the street and come into my shop. He was shaken and tweaked, threatening to kill the other two employees who’d pushed him out the door and wouldn’t let him back in. He escaped the whole incident with only one deep cut on the top of his foot. He asked me to clean him up. “I already picked the glass out.” He said. I didn’t want to get involved, but I didn’t want to piss him off, either.

After he was bandaged, I told him to leave, as the cops or owners or both were probably on the way. He thought that was a good idea and told me to meet him at the Copa later. I told him I would, just to get him out of the store. His freakish behavior, ramblings, and repeated death threats against the other two boys began to give me the spooks. I didn’t think it would be too cool for him to turn on me, and for me to turn into Daffy Duck, ho-hoo!-ing down the street, Ray-as-Elmer-Fudd, chasing close behind, ax or rifle in hand. No Es frijol people. Not cool.

After work, I did go to the Copa. I had remembered, that after annoying the staff for a week straight, Ray had been 86’d, and couldn’t get in. That was cool with me, and I spent the rest of the night alternating between my roommates’ bars, getting tremendously drunk in the process. Pretty much like any other night. Almost like nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

A couple of hours later, I staggered home and passed out on the four foot, rattan, kind-of couch positioned in front of the air conditioner in the living room. I was unaware that Ray and two new buddies were trying to break into our apartment, presumably to steal what little belongings we had for drugs. Our neighbor heard the commotion and threatened to call the cops. They ran away. I slept through the whole thing (Yeah, pretty, I know) and didn’t know about the night’s climax until the next day, when the neighbor told me. He seemed to be disgusted with me also, probably knowing I was home and blind drunk at the time.

After that night, coupled with repeated physical and death threats and some stalking on his part, my friendship with Ray became strained.