Trout Fisting In America #29 – Freewrite Aug 2017

And the poisoned lips of the servants spoke of fighter planes & white supremacy, their lisps dripped w/proclivities learned from bootlegged videos of french new wave films (just the nude scenes) and so they communicated through sighs & ennui, gravity-defying breasts & lenses that ogled—a fetish for vulgar accordions & excrement exquisitely filmed expressive faces. You’re not Georges—in this century, none of us are Georges, none of are gorgeous. Gaping. Juniper. Unwanted

jealousy, the small-minded literalness of an undereducated slug. Which laundry detergent do you use when you wash that US flag outside your house, whichever makes it the whitest. You know what happened to Hansel & Gretel when they strayed to far from the straight & narrow and in a way we’re all filipinos being ground into dust. A threat to the state must be dealt with, by persuasion if possible, by intimidation if necessary, but by violence if forced. Our minds turned to sand with the privatization of water; the rice remains stiff, its tendrils gasping & parched.

I want to be a tree, any kind of tree. I want to be grass; I want to be dirt. I want to wear loose-fitting clothes & flinch at the sound of my own voice. I want to be a cow. I want to be a pig. I want to hear so many drums that the sound blurs into a single wave. I want to be a human. I want to be dead.

Slowly trudging through a field all of us in the early morning haze navigating the overgrown path, Shelly dances like a chicken, Shelly dances like no one on earth through fields of wheat heading towards downtown to make a little money on the street. There’s always a need for fresh talent in these our american cities. Fire defies gravity, or at least it tries to. Not houses. Houses are always attempting to dig their graves

Put your shirt back on, I think it’s about to rain. My back crunches when I bend; it relaxes when I slouch, it is never far from my fruitless hateful thoughts.

The dilapidated dismay of cobblestone pyramids propping up the awning, chasm between vehicles both automatic & shuttered. The cars move in ellipses through the parking lot like sharks angling for a prayer of a space. Sandals and socks may be the saddest accessorization. The downhill slope towards the stoplight is the hardest to navigate. The face of the 3-story apartment complex goes like this—the bottom two floors painted a dijon mustard color w/the topfloor painted brown, an Arby’s kind of brown both the restaurant decor & the meat.

Pulling a trailer behind you as you approach the light only complicates things further. Boiled peanuts are god’s way of saying you don’t have enough farts. The world is changing and this may not be a good thing.

A father’s overprotection/overprojection re: his pubescent daughter, seeing only corruption in the innocence. There should be more words in our language for regret. There should be fewer flags. There should be fewer men.

And even a topiary can turn tragic when given too much moss. I’m a concrete boy given to the mixing of water & clay. Buzzsaw perspective & underwater emotions. I’m taking my jest to Brazil, or at least Nova Scotia and some days it feels like every goal is arbitrary and lifegoals in particular are the best way to feel 23-years-old looking at a picture of 13-year-old you and thinking what a fucking idiot you were, or 33-year-old you at 23-year-old you, and if you were an idiot then you’re probably an idiot now—what you at 13 would have called a retard and you at 23 would have called a fucktard and you at 33 would’ve ironically & self-consciously called a tard and you at 43 would’ve called a dumb faggot for reasons that make no sense whatsoever except you were blackout drunk & lonely that night and trying to break out of your brain if not your skin and sometimes the only escape we can find is breaking a taboo and one consenting adult’s sexual kink is another’s linguistic kink and sometimes mine is saying the unsayable in order to feel alive and this is not something I’m proud of and I also inflict poor decisions on myself in the name of feeling alive which is why I guess utopias, both personal & societal, must be the province of fools b/c the only way to win this life is to get out of it w/o destroying absolutely everyone in your path along w/everything in your brain.

Identity, causal beliefs, and partisan competition.

We all leave our engines running when we enter the store
to stock up on salted faux-mexican snacks and unsalted beer
Our headlights reflected back to us in the glass

He puts on weight and then he elongates.

And so the vast stanzas of bamboo in the backyard loomed large & leafy above the porch, two stories high & swaying like sanfrancisco skyscrapers in an earthquake. The wind blows and they make a sound like a bathtub filled w/drowning snakes.

River Cancer is a disease that predominantly affects asian people, usually occurring in their upper stomachs. Is it racist or is it funny? Is it neither, is it both? Compare it to sickle-cell and make the awfulness complete—oh how sickle-cell can always be counted on to square the circle.

Half of this was written while drunk, while trying to break free from all my self-placed restraints.

The passing of cars along a busy street in the early evening as their headlights are on while the sky is still light, is one of the saddest feelings I know. But it’s a sadness offset by this subtext of potential energy—its fleeting quality suggests that change is, if not imminent, then at least not completely out of the question. Which weirdly enough also amplifies the sadness. Because you just know that the onset of evening brings out the dreamers, and most dreams never come true to the point where the dream starts to eventually exist as a lie, as a fork in the eye, a pitchfork in the tits. And you know nothing sets off the violence volcano quicker than a lie. To have been lied to means that all your actions/reactions to come are not your fault. You were provoked. You were lied to. You are not inflicting violence (either on others or on yourself), you are avenging a wrong. Others may call you a violent psychopath, a sadist who needs to be arrested. But you know the truth, that you are a crusader for justice. You were lied to. And in your fragile twisted psyche, your distorted sense of right & wrong, that is all the justification you need, for anything you desire to do.

A wool hat—in Georgia, even in late summer—is a sign of pretension. Or rebelliousness. I suppose it could be rebelliousness. LIke that time back in El Cajon I found that purple jacket at Amvets during the heat wave and decided to wear it until the heat wave subsided, as a late-20thcentury version of a rain dance. Only I was dancing for brisker weather and not actually willing to dance. I loved that jacket and wonder now 20yrs later what happened to it. I wonder during which sudden impetuous  immediate moving of home I decided I no longer needed it, back in the days when if it didn’t fit in my car then it didn’t make the journey.

I see more stars—manufactured in a factory & then purchased—on the walls of restaurants & bars than I see in the skies these days, obliterated by light pollution & this everpresent blanket of clouds & smog.

I’m pretty sure if I ever appear before a judge, part of my sentence will include not being allowed to play darts in public.

If you have a pocket on your t-shirt then you should be required to put your teeth there after I finish punching them out of your mouth.

We use wine bottles for chess pieces, coasters for playing cards. This sad lonelines of existence that forces women to listen to the endlessly pedantic boring stories of men.

At least give me mass-prouced artistic mediocrity that knows what it is. The crasser the better, if you can’t be brilliant then at least be clear. Ambition makes muddles of us all.

Staggered shelves of nautical torpor
is all that I see
when I hold onto the sink and pray to the mirror

Oh my god I’m so glad I no longer exist.

Five mass-produced orange lights, each w/a light no brighter than a candle, suspended along/above the bar, the skinniest & most inept basketball team ever assembled.

When there is a group out in public consisting of two men & two women, you will be able to hear the men no matter in which corner of the room you sit. And in this age of uncertainty I suppose this can be, in a sense, slightly reassuring.

Though I too have played games in bars w/people I was hoping to fuck, in the hope that the shared experience created by pool/cornhole/darts/mspacman would translate into a shared experience of orgasm later in the night. And while I’ve been wrong about many things in my life, many things I’d like to take back, this particular wrongness is the one I’d most like to take back—all the times I was so focused on potential sex that I missed the chance to actually intersect w/another human being, in those situations I think everyone missed out and, regardless of what may or may not have taken place later in the night, all of us were ultimately unhappy.

I miss the days of adderall & christmas lights, an abundance of time & potential ideas. I don’t remember eating back then, but I’m sure I must have eaten. I don’t think I set foot inside a grocery store for nearly two years. The bodega had tuna fish. The bodega had macaroni & cheese. The bodega had peanut butter. The bodega had bread.

That word normal, so pregnant w/meaning you could crawl inside & die. What is normal—there is nothing more normal than death, nothing more normal than the attempt to fend off despair and god how I love eating boiled fucking peanuts, nothing more normal than a desperately manufactured public attempt at joy, nothing more normal than pretending to enjoy the thing that everyone around you is pretending to enjoy, nothing more normal than the perfectly normal desire to not feel alone, nothing more normal than a job that doesn’t inspire, a partner who one night you fucked and you both kept fucking and so you became a couple and so here you are. And so even as the world spirals more multi-dimensionally out of control, our art/culture/surroundings become somehow ever more staid & beige, as if in reaction, as if in rebellion, against this kaleidoscopic explosion of information & ideas. Normal: only one letter removed from Garfield’s nemesis, that infernally cute kitten of sweetness & light.

We live in a time where the louder someone shouts SHUT UP the less likely they are to mean it. And if my son reads this one day, I’d like him to know that I actually liked him. And not just b/c he was my son, I mean I actually liked him as a person. If we had been closer in age and not so genetically entwined, I like to believe we would have been friends.

When I knock on the door of my mother’s apartment, there to pick up my son, the first thing she always says is ‘uh-oh.’

That is 100% true. And yeah I know she means it as a joke and her hyper-self-consciousness & constant nervousness is the result of spending 10yrs married to my father, but it still seems to me a strange thing to say when you know the person on the other side of the door can hear you and like what’s the fucking point of being self-conscious & worried all the time if you do creepy-ass shit like say ‘uh-oh’ when someone knocks on the door and you’re alone w/a 3yr old and you were raised catholic and half your immediate family are perverts and/or pederasts?

People who wear their work nametags in public are the answer to my prayers. I mean, if you’re not going to judge people by what they wear, then how are you supposed to judge them? You can’t judge them by what they do. That would require following them around, and stalking is a crime.

The male gaze is so powerful that most dudes could sexualize a wheelchair filled w/rotting slugs. It is well worth remembering that most people’s idea of a fun friday night is being as stupid as possible, only a lot louder than most other nights. Men get excited about the dumbest shit. Actually, so do women. And me, I haven’t been excited about anything since 2011. Which of us is the biggest fucker, which of us the biggest fool? But still, if you close your eyes while a bunch of dudes are playing darts, it sounds like they’re all taking a massive shit and assigning scores to the size of their turds.

I guess in the end, in my most lowest moments, i pity everyone around me and hate myself w/the white-hot intensity of a nation of pyromaniac klansmen. How else to explain the enduring popularity of a whingeing otherwise nothing-dog like Radiohead?

I think all of us are in some ways looking for anything that will make us explode. Me personally, I tend to gravitate towards nacho cheese. And carpenter pants. Somewhere right now there is someone watching Atlanta Braves baseball in late august and that person is both very sad and yet somehow also very, very happy. And somewhere right now it is late august regardless of where I am as I’m re-reading it. It’s important to know that time is elastic and immeasurable in any sort of cosmic sense.

Is everything horrible or am I just seeing everything too clearly. The word literally, as currently used, would make more sense if it were spelled w/two T’s. Sometimes I write for money, sometimes I write for fun. Occasionally I write for both, lately I write for neither.

White people ironically pretending to dance by dancing for five seconds and then stopping are…they’re something…I don’t know what it means but I feel like if I filmed it again & again that place them all on a loop and saturated the walls that eventually I would understand everything about human existence that has never quite been adequately articulated in a peer-review journal, underappreciated & inscrutable.

Curmudgeon. Cur bludgeon. Fur dungeon. There’s a particular tone to an indierock synthesizer that sounds like a parrot trying to fuck a blueberry muffin.

i wrote 3000 words on the meaning of the word normal. and like one of those thing where the more you say a word the less sense it makes, i have no idea what the word normal means and ‘clear formatting’ is my favorite command in google docs. Cutting & pasting is, in a barthelemic sense, the most contemporary means of artistic expression. And I strive to be, in a bathelemic sense, nothing if not contemporary. Which means I think Barthelme is irrelevant as I have now embraced the lyrical essay genre (some more lyrical than others) and am currently dream-negotiating a six-figure advance for these my collected thoughtless thoughts. To be disordered and have no responsibility to anyone not even myself and sometimes it’s easier just to let your fat stupid fingers type the typo and then go back and right click on the mess of letters that’s supposed to be a word instead of backspacing all that way and squinting your eyes into focus to try and make things right all by yr lonesome cheating heart and what do you even say about an adult softball team w/Chico’s Bail Bonds on the back of their amateur softball jersey in homage/tribute to the Bad News Bears, a 1970’s movie about kids drinking & swearing, and yeah I get that you don’t actually say anything, but what do you think? Is it just a joke that went too far? Something one guy (and you know it was a guy) felt so strongly about that no one had the heart to intervene and maybe try to suggest a better idea. Oh well, at least no one’s number is 69, right.

All of 21st century existence is a drug if only you could take the time to notice. A girl w/dark hair & muscular shoulders and why is nobody laughing. My new game when out at a coffeeshop/bar is ‘guess that pandora station’ and I’m pretty sure the station in this place is TV On The Radio and I don’t know what that means or if it even means anything at all. But I wish the cars wouldn’t drive so fast, and I wish the people wouldn’t move so slow.

About ScottCreney

Scott Creney lives in Athens, Georgia. He is the author of "Dear Al-Qaeda: Letters to the World’s Most Notorious Terror Organiztion".
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