Friday, February 11, 2005

Partying With Shrunken Head Inukuns.

Top of the morning gents,

Darkness. Way too much of it. I'm too fucking far
north.

I never thought I'd ever experience the density, mass,
and weight a remote arctic environment presses on a
lad, merely from the absence of light.

All you sub-Arctic Siberian Mongoloid motherfuckers
know how spooky it is to blindly push aside stinky
hides and fish and carefully walk in to frosty
qunnichuks, storm porches, and shitty little cabins.

In pitch dark.

There's a secret society of featureless Eskimos that
lay concealed in shadows, here in Barrow. An
invisible gang of shrunken head Inukuns.

I got to drink with them last night.

Reminiscent of your camp upbringings, one candle or
lantern makes for disturbing optical effects, even for
a murderous Finn. This is your author on drugs.

Me and the Mrs. took a long stroll last night, a
stroll that brought us into old town site cross town
on the beach. In customary tradition, walk and talks
do a soul some good. Guess that's why 'Skimos "go
visit."

I smelled cigarette smoke and heard voices from inside
old man Ira's little plywood shack, so we opened up
the broken outer door, swept aside some truly smelly
hides and blindly groped to find the front door.

Bunnik held the draped hides back and the door open so
I could navigate through piles and stacks of good food
other cultures call rotten. I knocked 3 times and
heard the ancient customary greeting, "come in."
After finding a bent and jagged door knob, we walked
in and were greeted by an astoundingly large number of
faceless dark people sitting everywhere possible, but
still in the shadows.

Ira only had a single 60 watt lightbulb in his little
shack.

Bun and I shook the hands that reached into the light,
and we repeated our identities, "Karl and Bunny from
Kotzebue."

"Adza!" "I know you're Atiin and you're brother."

"Adiga!" "You're Bessie Ootoyuk."

I recognized some of the voices but couldn't make out
the faces, until Riley Wreck Kowunna climbed from a
black hole and gave us hugs whilst getting muk oil and
fish smear all over us both.

Bun and I found an unoccupied recess and disappeared
into it.

We passed around lots of bottles of low grade whiskey,
smoked cigarettes, and chiefed down a shitload of high
grade chronic in the customary counterclockwise
fashion established by Maniilaq and his stoner dudes,
about 10,000 fucking years ago.

Now, I know you uniformed felons can detect bullshit,
so I don't try.

The mysterious effects that occur whilst gulping down
cups of liquor, smoking fat chiefs and getting
Chinked, and fumigated with good tobacco with faceless
and shrunken Inupiaqs, is hypnotic.

I can't make out a single fucking word, yet I'm
pleasantly comfortable hiding in a dark corner of a
little shack on the shore from the Beaufort Sea.

Something strange and disturbing about achieving a
chemically agreeable singularity right next to a
groaning ice pack. I normally don't get extremely
impaired on multiple levels with non-Alien, yet
indiginous spooks, but last night was a refreshing
break from the safety and comfortable structures of
mental health.

Dudes, these Natives are spooky. They only come out
at night, and we got a month of Sundays ahead of us;
minus warmth and illumination.

I won't be strolling that route for a while. My walk
home was excrutiatingly long. The Mrs. glided with
her normal stride, I on the other hand ought invest in
a smaller pair of mukluks. For my lips.

I was good walking out of old town site, and across
fresh water lake under staggering northern lights, but
steering my way up through Browerville became a bit
dizzying and halucinatory. A quarter of a day with
these ambiguous aborigines is hard on chap's liver,
lungs, and balance.

Bun says Viking's aren't cut out for this kind of dark
holiday partying. She's right you know. I'm a pussy
in comparison to these old faceless slant eyed spooks.

My brief visit punched me off my rocker. This morning
whilst walking me Bunnik to the bus stop, I sleuthed a
deduction that the size 13 Sorrell footprints in the
snow, weaving all over my road and front porch may
have likely been someone else.

Drain bramage gives a time travelling murderer
objectivity. So much crime and trauma beyond the
grasp of emotional response. Like guilt.

When someone tells you, "Ya just can't seem to drink
it off your mind." (Rolling Stones) Advise them to
fly way north of 70 lat. and set a spell with my new
featureless imaginary friends from Siberia. My stoner
gang of shrunken head Inukuns.

Merry Christmas gentlemen. Imbibe a little. Ok
imbibe a lot. Just be careful on your walk back home
and pray your blessed wives leave the porch light on.

Karl.

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