smoke the tree, climb the tree

A cracked window in the sleep screen faze of night when all is unprofessional and silly in the dreams of insurance salesmen and one-hit wonder wives that drive mini-vans that smack of cheap pot fused with melted crayon in the seats, both substances coming from each one of her sons. Ah, the potential for havoc when the suburban world sleeps. Tomfoolery and mischievous horses by the truck load I say. Why dispense of such peace?
A fugitive I once knew calls me and tells me I am to make a choice. An intake of cheap bud that tastes like chlorine. I expected his proposition, or more so demand, to be something to do with our previous fucking arrangement.
“You either have to marry me or die. Soon. Tomorrow would be good for me.”
I can almost hear him penciling in the engagement between 4 and 6 tomorrow.
4:00 PM: Marry/Aid in the Suicide of/ and/or Attend Jessamyn’s wake.
I am horrified that I am not horrified at this notion. What happened to surprise and fascination? Just another overrated concept smoked down to the filter. I’m an addict for these wilted human ideals; realizing the all too mechanic nature of our mapped out destinies as deteriorating organisms. Around forty years of age, I can assume that gravity will yank at my skin like a famished babe at teeth-marked breasts. I want nothing of these things; they seem pointless and overrated to have to experience. I’ve met an eight year old kid with more wisdom than I. Not a crow print to be found.
“Well let’s flip a coin,” I say, mocking the fates with my passivity, and I raise a shaking fist into the stale air of my bedroom I’ve had for the last 8 years, my brother’s old room, and my father’s old study before that.
“Alright,” he says. I, 34.8 miles away, know that he is not reaching in his pocket nor is he looking under a crumb-stuffed cushion for an abandoned bit of change. Instead he’s on level nine against some chick named redhotfirebender47 who holds a far superior trading card than he, and will therefore have to give up a blue orb of virtue. And he’ll be eating Doritos. Licking his fingers while he flips a non-existent coin that decides my fate starting tomorrow.
“Heads: you die; Tails: you marry me.” A fine analogy to represent the awkward gift of life. Every day is Russian roulette. It reminds me of a dirty joke.
“So flip it. Give it to me straight. Don’t sugar coat my tomorrow. I’ll eat anything.”
“Wait. So it’s Tails: you die; Heads; you marry me?”
“I could have sworn you just said the opposite, my darling Lachesis.”
“Well I wanna switch. I’ve heard that heads have better odds. It’s always been better for me in the past.”
“This game is fixed.” I felt like someone had doped my prize horse.
“I’m drunk.” My theory proved accurate, in a word. Only I should have known that I had administered the needle.
“Is this why you’re calling me?”
“Yes.” He’s not playing video games. He’s probably at our beach; outside on Clark Street; in the corner on a metal chair. But away. From other people. Everyone there is terrible.
“I’m flattered,” I say. When someone needs to get messed up before hearing your voice, it most often surely means that you have effected them in some way. Usually in a rather fucked up way. But at least you know there is a paper trail of souls that link themselves back to you, and how fucked up you made them feel. Because you both shared something fragile and prone to be fucked with. These fragile somethings are usually brief. At least for me. Sometimes I feel too brief.
“You make me act like such a pussy. I wanna climb this tree for you.” I’ve now established that my intoxicated friend/lover/ex-lover is outside. Perhaps meandered his way over to Millenium Park.
“Be careful my love. It’s hard to climb a tree with one hand and 7 dimensional vision.”
“I’m stoned too.”
“Well hidy-ho. Summit that bitch. Drugs be futile to your sciuridae abilities.”
“COP.” -click-
I imagine him calling back. Maybe 3 hours later. I will be asleep. “I got arrested for climbing that tree. I was doing it for you. You make me do these pussy things. This is my one phone call. It was heads.”
To erase this message, press 7. To save it, press 9. To forget it, hold phone up to ear until cell phone’s radiation has implemented damage on the cerebrum.

contrac

i, jessamyn patterson, hereby swear to not give a fuck. because with all good, comes bad. equilibrium; intstinct; universality: these things exist in a profound way. human nature has a nasty habit of unfounded self-importance. it's been an altogether embarrassing exaggeration of the opposable thumb.
signed
jessamyn jo elizabeth patterson
aka outrajess. badassmotherfucker. bitchthatdontgiveadamn.

self-deprication: "procrastinator of the worst kind."

http://www.pikemag.com/pike_visuals

i forgot i even submitted to these people. and then i googled myself one day (for some reason that sounds rather dirty) and found that i made the march issue for this small online literary magazine. google is a hell of a tool.

theory of relativity gets a titty-twister

i've always thought that Plato was an idealistic shithead. his notion of there being a unique, individual perception to an object as simple as a chair was, to me, a real itching to just fuck with people and be famous for it. because people that pose those sorts of questions get hella money for trying to explain the answer. and the answer is usually a glass half full of preschool logic. i say this because their reasoning is usually diverted to theism. and i could have bet you anything that in today's world, plato would have been yet another jesus cocksucker. 

however, i was walking to the library today. i take roads less travelled by, only because i wish to conceal my chain-smoking from attentive Barrington residents that have nothing better to do then call up my mother. barrington isn't too large of a town. and everyone that goes to St. Anne's Catholic church knows my father. which is the town.

lincoln street is all residencies except for my old elementary school. it's lined with the most beautiful, victorian houses, small, but quaint. as i was walking passed, i saw a mother picking her son up from school. school had gotten out for them about an hour earlier, so there wasn't any traffic to speak of. the mother parked her obese minivan on the opposite side of the road. the boy ran out the door, sprinted down the seven step staircase, and suddenly halted at the curb, like he'd run into a wall. his mother walked across the street, after looking both ways, and met her son at the school side. she took his hand, looked both ways, and walked him across the street. the boy must have been 8 or 9. 

and then it occurred to me: plato was right; this kid's impression of a street is one that is different from mine. because of the different degrees of importance we apply to the street. he sees it as a somewhat dangerous thing: a thing, an entity that can possibly hurt him. and therefore he should always apply caution when encountering a street.

i dont think a street is anything. especially lincoln. just a piece of pavement going over suffocated ground. and i always have the right of way; if i want to cross the street, cars can wait. i walk places, so i'm not confined to the streets. i can walk anywhere. he cannot. after that display, his mother probably drives him to his friend's house that live just down the street.

i guess my point is, i find importance in coffee. good books. my sketchbook. .5 lead (never .7). cigarettes. headphones that work. the play count accessory on itunes. philosophy. mathematics. human interaction. solitude. weed. a heavy woolen sweater. my brother. my sister. my mother. sometimes. 

and what's comforting about this somewhat material list is that i can pack most of it in a bag. 

plato is also why i can never have children. because that mother is unknowingly instilling a small but pointless fear in her impressionable son. he should be scared of disappointment. a tainted perception of success. indecision. his father. being benign. 

but then i have to remember. he's only 8. or 9. and your fear evolves over time. to more 'important' things. but i wouldn't known how to implement any action towards my kid coming to understand MY perception of importance. to keep him from dry cleaning his clothes. keep him from watching reality television. from getting married in his 20's. 

i think i would push my kid to be impressive in ways that i deem impressive. a musician, a writer, a sculptor, maybe even a painter. a philosopher, an oceanographer, an archaeologist. a cancer researcher, a mathematician, an astronaut. 

if he became a banker, a lawyer, an accountant, an insurance salesman, a pop musician, president? i would fucking shoot him. 

that being said, plato is now my homie, and keep your hangers close. 

seriously- put them on.

new collection of drawings. im starting to go blind because of these things..

you can see the drawing of birds being drawn here:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0cpebdczPfI

(don't be) SPINELESS

check it out- yo girl has been published in an obscure literary online magazine. show me love.
http://dontbespineless.webs.com/art.htm
plus, i have a killer bio.
cheers