This probably won't interest you, as it is a recording of random instances of my life with a lot of dialogue. I feel like I want to use the space on the tape, and I would feel terrible erasing the history of these instances, regardless of value.
Volume II will be done tomorrow night. It makes sense to separate them, right? I mean, II will be much longer and much more taxing to transcribe. A lot more back and forth, a lot more content.
Enjoy or don't.
Click.
Hunter, in a staggered monotone, "Don't do it, Hurley. The [inaudible]/[garlic?] mayo is like." Pause. "Doin' things. Ferm-fermin'. Ferm. Fermigating. Fumigating. Furmiatin'." Ferm-ee-eight-en.
The Television character has just smelled a decaying corpse, but I try to reassure him that it's because of his diet(See: Terminally Unhealthy) that he smells death.
TV(concerned voice): "Dude. There's a body bag back here."
Hunter(over the Television, eliminating its next line-- a question): "BOOOODYBAG!" BAAHDEEBAAG!
TV(demeaning): "That's traditionally what you put in a body bag."
"Yeah, well who is he? What happened?"
"Don't worry about it, and don't tell anyone you saw him."
"Dude, what happened to him?"
Hunter(over TV): "[inaudible] because some bitch with a gun."
TV: "...digging a ditch, thinking about some girl named Andrea."
Hunter: "Ohhh, where are my, whe--, where those ignition sticks I got?"
TV: ". . .from his tooth being yanked right out of its socket."
Hunter: "There they are."
TV: ". . . then he was dead."
Hunter(into the mic): "I wish I could talk to the dead. Y'know what I'd say?" Pause. "I'd say, 'Heeeey, Dead Guy! "
Hunter(arms length from the mic): Heey! Is this good? Am I, is that, is that. Ah, oh, oh!"
Graham(inches from the mic and yelling): "Shuddup, I'm trying to watch--"
Hunter: "AHHHH!"
TV(questioning, but with little belief it an answer will be anything but snide or jokingly slung): "You can talk to dead people?"
Hunter(whispering into the mic): "Graham's obsessed. With LOST."
TV: "Can we please just go?"
Graham(irritated): "Turn off the tape recorder."
Hunter: "Why, you got somethin' confidential to say to me?" I get a huge grin on my face, probably, one that makes words longer and harder to enunciate. Like I'm on the verge of bursting into laughter. "You want somethin' off the record, dude." Dude squeaks out as I strain to contain myself.
Graham: "Off the record."
Hunter: "You want something off the record, dude, cuz I got some off the record shit. We can turn this thing off at any time. Let's turn it off."
Click.
A warped whir of noise or voice stains the tape here, then,
Click.
Hunter: "Ashuh, ashi, ashu. Fuck. Ashident. Ashident! Ah-hah! I had an ashident! Because ash fell on me." On accident.
Click.
I get about as far as "One Mississi" before the flashing cursor reappears. And that's all I've. I think it is time to go back to something I have already written. Something unfinished. Looking forward to continuing a story I long abandoned-- Thank You, Robot. A tentative title for a story hardly about robots, but rather dealing in fathers, snow, and the restaurant business.
Look forward to it, as it is a sort of addition to Sink at Sunset, my favorite and probably best piece.
Edit: Perhaps, in fact, this will be a four part series. Sink being in Summer, a skipped(for now) Fall piece, Winter(which I am writing), and Spring.
Love has a nasty habit of disappearing over night.
Eli G.
I had a really strange and far- reaching dream last night. In one of the scenes of this cheese and dip party, which was in a series of snow-covered trailers, you and your dad put on an opera act. And you sang really well, but your dad stole the act by belting out the most amazing notes ever. Everyone was really impressed and you stood there nodding.
Sorry this has nothing to do with your status.
Erin M.
You approached me in the main trailer, which was actually a large estate with a gorgeous mahogany interior. You handed me a magazine which had a cover shot of you, from below your bust line to your face. The name of the magazine: Seduction. I congratulated you on your new career and told you I would catch up to you after I got rid of a disc of porn. I headed outside after tossing the disc into a trashbin and caught up to the crowd standing in the snow. We were about to here opera.
Laura M.
We sat in pews, many rows apart. I leaned to a friend or my mother(I cannot recall) and asked if she has read The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter. At this you turn and look with vacant eyes. I get up and leave. Later, outside the opera bound trailer, I am putting down a video game console controller of some sort as I see you riding a hideously painted bicycle through a snowy parking lot. You hardly looked back but once. In that moment I felt the finality of the dream approaching, like a vast black cone closing around me.
Restructured to make a little more sense. Still haven't gone chronological, though. Everything that has been added in this iteration of the compendium has (new) next to it. Six (new)'s under non-fiction and five (new)'s under other. So, eleven entries worth putting on the revised compendium. The last time I did one of these was about this time last year. Not a good sign.
Non-fiction Stories(with no organization whatsoever):
(new)You're Creepy, Hunter - A girl tells me I am creepy. I get even.
(new)Phoenix - I don't think I am supposed to write about something that is supposed to be anonymous. Oh well.
(new)Strange Format - Saturday Show - Seriously the strangest format or lack thereof I have ever used. Almost like a poem. I've bad luck and things get out of hand.
(new)Graham's 21st Birthday - "No, dude, we're walking home. It's like two blocks."
(new)Dead Cicada - A woman is assaulted while holding her child. I intercede.
(new)A Warning - First Friday's in Richmond!
Salvia Gets Too Real - Fourth and worst trip on Salvia.
The Most Puke I Have Ever Seen - Imagine this next scene. Try to visualize it with me. My eyes open to the ceiling, my body shocked out of deep REM sleep. My legs and waist are moist. . .
Drunk People - An interesting twist-- I'm not drunk in this story. For once in my life.
Black and Mild
- I'll miss drinking with friends on top of the roof at my old
apartment. I will miss that Mediterranean market, with its natural
soaps and cheap spices. I will miss all those families who called the
cops on me when I played music too loud on Monday nights. Ahh
Hunter Takes it to the Limit, Throws Up Everywhere - In The Top Five Drunkest Nights
Pissing in Pools I & II - My double standard on people who pee in pools.
A Retelling of the First Time I SmokedA Trip To Walmart - Seriously one of the best destinations while high. Interesting, entertaining, sometimes a little creepy.
To Move My Body - When reality sinks in, when you think you've got nothing, you become psychic, telepathic, and shameless. This story has procession of Segways!
The Things I Remember - I somehow wake up at 2PM in my dorm, still drunk from the night before. A rough bus ride does me in.
Hunter Blacks Out, Goes To Patient First, Blames Free Beer - Pretty self explanatory.
A Tucker Emulation, It Seems - The very first story I wrote.
Handcuffed, Robbed, and 6 O'clock Rush - Pretty self-explanatory. Breakfast club.
Hunter Gets High, Driving Barely Ensues - I get high, and drive. Sort of.
Lebanese: A "Nice Guy" Failure - Nine Guys, One Girl. I get the girl and ride off into the sunset(upstairs), but turn out to be a "nice guy."
JMU, PART I
- The first and, since, only time I have been breathalyzed. There is
no part II. Part II would be better though, as it includes doing
mushrooms, a starving French guy, five plus parties, nearly getting run
over, really drunk chicks with australian accents, and BLOODHOUNDS.
But this story has none of that.
THE WEEKEND - A three day bender, with a decadent interlude of cheating debauchery. All set to the soundtrack of the very trite Garden State.
Perfect Night Ruined by Marriot, Morning -- This story is far too long to hold your attention. Do not read it.
Short(or long) Stories(Fiction):
Saint Dympna - My favorite.
The Sink at Sunset - Guy has mobile home of a heart. This is life at 20.
Shells - My drug induced interpretation of the scramble suits in A Scanner Darkly caused this short. Later turned into a short fiction piece (for a class) called Mise en Place or The Writer.
Nine-Tenths is Nothing - Our children are here to replace us. One man attempts to slow this process by proving he is better than them and protecting his wife from kid perverts.
The Last Boat to the Disappearing - A seven vignette fiction piece about flaming zombies. As much as I wish I had written them gay, they are actually on fire.Story Starter Exercise - A brief story about a friend who got kicked up and did a lot of drugs while living in the woods.
Other:
(new)At The Edge of The Neighborhood - Vivid zombie dream.
(new)Shut Down or Reset - Up late? Two options. Special bonus feature: scene from this year's Best Friends Day @ Hadad's
(new)A Haiku - About a day I spent at the river getting drunk with someone I didn't know. She was taken and I fell and cut myself on a rock. Then there is a sexual allegory at the end. There, I ruined it.
(new)My First Near-Ticket on a Bicycle(new)Autumn - The Greatest and Best Time of Year
Can Blood Cells Have Car Accidents? - Thoughts after the fire.
Janus - Girl cheats on me. Girl dies in short story Sink at Sunset.
Transcribing the Knowledge of The Smoke, Part I -- I test my voice recorder during a toking session. Heavy on the dialogue.
Transcribing the Knowledge of The Smoke, Part II -- The better half of the overall recording experience. A lot of in depth high conversation.
Friend's Mom Finds Out About Hunter's Livejournal, Missiles Fly - Probably one of the more significant events in the history of my online writing.
Under a Hot Chicago Sun - I didn't even know my neighbors name.
H-D-P-E Does Not Spell "Hope" - Recycling is hopeful. I am not.
It Is Only Hubris If I Fail - Childhood with a heavy dose of failure, sprinkled with Sloane Crosley.
Sick Dream D.A.N.C.E. - Dreams are fun. Dreams about partying and religious fanatics that all have the same face... strange. Sick dreams are most disturbing.
Rape, Tacos, and Love - I get raped, noticed for my writing at a party, have sex for the first time high, eat really good tacos, and listen in on a nasty girl shit.Tainted Elephant Oil Prices Dowsed in Sickly-Sweat-Stained Dreams - More sick dreams, musings on family life and relationships.
Metal Shows - Are awesome. Especially when you know the band. Even if it's at a lame venue.
Derelict Father, Are We the Cause of Our Suffering?
Shit's Run Its Course - I inherit a bike from a metal head who stole it from a crack head.
The Bear, The Bee, The Rhino - I connect with mother nature, understand things I never thought possible.
Night Luck - I have only gotten in trouble with the law when sober. Sobriety really takes the spine out of me.
Condom Debacle - A young Hunter hides a partially used condom in duct-tape.
Jesus Freaks - I lament about my hatred for street-preachers. This is a Facebook classic.Bloody Knuckles - It wasn't a game that gave me these.
Diphenhydramine - The first time I ever tripped on a deliriant.
Bulgarians are Hardcore - Intoxicated 5 times the lethal limit, this Bulgarian gets hit by a car and sent to the hospital for minor head trauma.
Sunchips? - Do you know why they call them sunchips?
LIRICKES - The funniest rap "lirickes" you'll read all week.
The Binary Universe and How Choice Works - With diagrams and shit.
Poems - A little too sing-songy.
Soundscape - High times.
The Nature of Souls and Soulmates - Got a decent response for this one.
Scanner Darkly and the Universe as a Vague Set of Prepositions
Demon Play, Demon Out - Your shoes are not an extension of anything that matters to your person.
Clocked Out - A New Year - 2007. Some things get better, other things are mentioned less.
New - I miss writing.
-"You're fat." (To my sister, throughout our childhood.)
-Punching my dad repeatedly in the head over some pokemon cards.
-Slapping Caleb in the face so hard it left a mark for a week. When I was 5?
-Calling Caleb the King of the Gays when I was too young to know what gay meant, but old enough to know how to fit in.
-Lying to you, because I probably have.
-Avoiding you, because I probably have.
-"Your tattoo is cliche"(To a former girlfriend)
That's all I have right now. To be continued. . .
I have three instances of invasive behavior that I observed today.
1. A girl I hardly know prying into my life. And thank god she got me out of this apartment. Being open with another person never felt so refreshing.
2. Two girls who invade our get together over at Noah's. Yes, our conversation before their arrival was divided, but it wasn't solely about voter registration. They claimed not to profit, fiscally, from signing people up. But Graham was skeptical. So was I. They were loud, drew their words with a slowed down slinging motion- like they were fertilizing our minds with their very own product. Fucking preaching to us. It's not like their was any dispute over the subject, not really anyway. So they sat down and they drank their PBR and used the house gravity. They must have been there, talking at us in groaning irritation, for about an hour or so.
One of them looks like someone I know. You know those clones you see that look just like someone else. Their hair-style/color, down to their frames. Their facial structure has something slight about it, something different, but every time you look at them, you see or want to see another person. And then they go and open their mouth and it's an epic let down. I experienced that.
3. A family that is never invasive, even when necessary. I take that back. Early this morning(9/25/09) my mother and sister dragged me out of my apartment, when leaving was the last thing I wanted to do.
So last night I was masturbating when I was interrupted several times by what sounded like someone rustling papers behind me. Instead, I discovered a mutant-sized city roach. It must suffer, I thought. I captured it and watched it scuttle about the inside of a plastic box, thought about getting the raid, but eventually let it outside. I went back to masturbating and thought I earned good karma. So this morning, NPR comes on and I'm drifting in an out until something tingles on my shoulder and I touch it with my hand. A giant cockroach falls next to my face. Best alarm clock. For the whole building. But my shoulder feels strange. I think it layed eggs in me.
I should probably have washed these tomatoes before eating them. This one tastes like spinal muscular atrophy. Type 1. Damn 5th chromosome. In addition to this, it is 4:20AM on a Thursday and I am drinking freshly brewed coffee. I figure that by not using alcohol to get to sleep, I will use caffeine to stay awake. Stay awake until I fall asleep about 16 hours from now. These are my options: shut down or reset.
My wrist hurts from playing video games and typing all day. I should probably get some ibuprofen for that. I am full of healthy ideas.
I am incredibly healthy now that I don't drink. Yes. Well, at least I will stop puking on people / everything, pissing in pools, etc. Maybe. Speaking of puking on things, here's a story.
It is Best Friends Day Oh-Nine. I sip Tom Jones out of a plastic 325 while Graham rides atop the car. His weight compresses the ceiling above me and I push back.
"Whoa, he says."
"Can I see your lighter-- Oh. Thanks" I ask Annie for her lighter. It is the only one in the car. Before I finish her name, the lighter is held in the middle of the car, her other hand on the wheel. "Thanks." We are stuck in traffic. No one wants to ride their bike, none of the people I talk to before hand, so we are stuck in traffic. I am none too happy. I take another big hit off ol' Paul Jones. 4.30 for 325ml of disgusting mock whiskey.
Oh my god, these details don't matter. So at Hadad's I am barely floating above water, so sick and drunk. I tell everyone I am with that we need to leave. I feel terrible. Everyone looks at me and asks the same question: "Why do we need to leave?" Why exactly do you want to leave this magical place, Hunter? Do you hate mud? Are you sad half your cigarettes melted, or that someone lifted your whiskey? No, guys, I am going to puke all over everything, my insides are going to be everywhere. This does not concern anyone.
To the bathroom! Across the biggest section, I do whatever the aquatic equivalent is of crawling. I reach a wall and hoist myself up. The booze sloshes to the top of my body as I belch green. I traverse the paved walkway. Two girls almost look at me, you know, in a way. I try so hard to contain myself that I puke all over my chest. They definitely now look at me in a big way. In disgust they huddle their bodies to the left(mine) side of the walkway as they pass. I puke again. I decide I am gross. I jump in the least populated section to wash off. I stumble ashore like some sort of dehydrated shipwreck survivor and make my way to the bathroom. I pee, I feel good, I return to swim.
I'm sitting in some uncomfortable chair, a style of which I have never seen before. It has the usual aluminum grey frame, a backrest adjusted to a standard of height, blah blah-blah. But it has these strange pads connecting the seat, pads that shoot up and fill some of the space between the back rest and the ass rest with some sort of. . . spinal rest? The color of the rotund woman's shirt--toothpaste blue-- outlines this extraneous pad.
I stare at her, her lumpy body a pile of toothpaste squeezed directly into the same spot. I play with the bracelet on my right wrist. I wonder if it is really home made. I doubt it.
I gaze around the room. Most of the crowd is young. A guy in the corner looks like a disgruntled underwear model. Not big time, just a locally owned department store maybe. There are many attractive girls my age.
Several people speak out of a small paperback. Everyone seems to have a copy. After introducing ourselves, I get one too. One with numbers. Not the numbers of the many attractive girls. Just numbers with male names next to them following MEN: at the top.
"How are you?" she asked me. No, wait, it was "Are you well?" Or maybe it was neither, but had the tone of both, concern backing the question.
I told her "I'm fine," with little enthusiasm. The tree above would wet us occasionally with drops of dew. She bounced her baby a bit, gently, and a breeze blew his wispy hair. He was concerned with the wind. He stared into the soul of a wavering plant, trying to understand its movement.
"He doesn't really understand object permanence yet," the father, my friend Tyler, said. I didn't want to say Piaget was wrong. I didn't want to say anything. But I said something like, "You mean like peek-a-boo?"
When I introduce myself, I am the only one that simply says my name. This is my first time and I have not yet developed the ability to confess my heart to strangers. A kid younger than me speaks up. Says his life is better now, says he's happy ninety-five percent of the time. I think bullshit, life is a constant of inconsistency. Fuck your 5% estimated blue time. Then I realize he at least thinks he has something worthy of sharing. I cannot begin to imagine a similar image of myself.
I said goodbye to the family after a walk down the street. It was pleasant. The sun was just beginning to tire and the air cool. Leaves tumbled to the earth around us as we all hugged. Phoenix, their child, grabbed hold of my bracelet. His grip was strong and I didn't want to pry his hands off of what he wanted to hold. But they had to visit another friend(a mother) and I had to go home. So Kat pried his demonically possessed fingers from it and we said goodbye.
Ice floats on emulsion, melts, spins clinking.
He tries to fish a cube with his tongue, but ends up gulping the mixture.
His throat burns, but he has the cube. Splinters it with a worn incisor,
crunches it with the rest. The iced warmth travels to the back of his throat,
down, and to his belly. Nothing tastes as good as this, he thinks.
The sting, the texture. The undeniable tinge of regret-- relieved.
The man child's mind cauterizes memorable moments,
forgets the ones he wishes to, remembers none other.
The ice tray with its half frozen surfaces and liquid
guts, he's chewed it all away.
Chipped, his tooth's in pain.
Mustache froth, what is love's directive? On the verge of 'quit,'
he wipes it away, remembers sister, a non brother.
The man's child mind: acorn fights, memorable memories.
He doesn't understand why he attempts this poetry,
but lines don't lie, they tell the only way.
Can you believe that this is my communique?
Maybe I will understand this another day.
to be clear, I have not written poetry in forever, suck at it and am a little drunk thanks to a friend. . . so maybe we'll just put this in the "in progress category"
