Monday, May 15, 2006

Treasure Island: I merely follow the yellow puke road.

Top of the morning gents,

It's hard typing this morning, my hand hurts like a
motherfucker and my feet feel like I got 'sukpiq
mukluks.'

Me and bunnik did our thrice daily constitutional
walks over the weekend. In proper bad English yet
appropriate Ingulish "we go visit" our buds, barts and
'ilyas.'

Friday and Saturday were windy cold as hell with heavy
fog and frost mixed with rain and snow whipping around
us and pushing us along.

We paid visits to lots of elderly pals and partook in
rich, foul smelling snacks that would make any
European dickhead puke in disgust. With our punniktuq,
seal oil and jew bread (pilot crackers) we also
enjoyed our fill of coffee, bourbon and vodka. No
shit, folks 'round these parts are spot on in their
alcoholic generosity.

As expected, the walk back up to the edge of town was
a real bitch. The wind ripped our shit and exaggerated
my drunken stagger so as to create the appearance I
was just another local. Fun, fun.

This you’ll dig: me and bun spent a few nights last week
with her elderly aunty, a gray haired old Eskimo witch
of sincere benevolence: Dorcas Rock a tribal doctor we
toke and talk with from Pt. Hope. She's a self-avowed
Inupiaq shaman, albeit a GOOD shaman.

She connects with my Bessie Ootoyuk in spooky ways.
Those girls are peas in a pod, but I can keep up.
Creeps me out dude.

These shaman Inupiaq gals continually encourage me to
never forget about the magic and to quit attempting to
comprehend the unfathomable universe I send
curse-ridden prayers out to. They cackled evil with my
stating that the silly notion that I could ever
comprehend the creator of Einstein AND this universe
is akin to a penguin understanding nuclear physics.

I’m a fraud, charlatan and counterfeit in the school
of remote seeing, touch diagnosis and ESP sharing of
joy, healing and truly high manna. My dreamscapes are
filled with slaughter and erotic violence so delicious
I sleep on my side propped by a handsome kickstand.

Ya see, due to far too much LSD, rural Washington
mushroom trips and repeated near death experiences
part of me was left stuck regressed in an altered
state. I suspect a few of you killers may inhabit
those existential realms too. You graying gunslingers
are fully aware of my forked tongue, buried horns and
ungodly spiritual occupancy, cuz you've been there,
done that.

Fuck it. I refuse to believe I'm more than a cruel
molecule: just a deadly omnivorous carrion scavenger.
The soul of this Finn was created below.

For the time being, I got me a way cooler’n shit trio
of old Eskimo time travelers: me bunnik, Elija and
Dorcas Rock to keep my feet off the ground and my mind
off my futile battles in other spheres.

The more I scoff at my own significance, the more they
implore me to share my tales with them, but I fucking
don't. I fear they’ll detect my blood lustful
nightmarish experiences, lay hands upon me and vomit
up pure evil.

You know that wherever I nomadically wander, the Devil
ain’t far behind. Looking behind me is futile; I’ll
only “see what’s gaining on me” (Sachmo).

I sure trip fucking balls on my all night chats with
bun and our ethereal ancient Siberian angels with
Chinese eyes and spooky tales.

On all of our walks, me bunnik and I scan the
environment for treasures. You know, wallets, purses
watches and loose cash blowing in the wind. Over the
years we've found shit loads of goodies.

Here's an example of historic blessings due to my
strict adherence to the magic all around AND my own
blessed existence here and around the world.

Years ago me and bunnik were taking a Front Street
walk down the full length of town whereupon I found a
hunnert dollar bill laying in the snow right near the
Nulugvik Hotel. Then bun found a role of hundreds
totaling 6 more. In total we snagged $700.00 all in a
yard radius partially concealed by drifting snows.

Fuck we were jazzed.

As we passed Hanson's Trading Post we were greeted by
Mark and Sara Bird: both whom looked terrified and
greatly upset. When queried what was wrong, they told
us that they just lost a bunch of money. So I asked
how much with a shit-eating grin on my fucking face.

When they stated they'd lost "7 hunnert bucks" I
reached into my pocket displaying a role of hundreds and
their eyes went from chink to round-eye in dismay.

"Here ye go." "Me and bunnik just found all your money
up the road a ways."

Hence our false impression of absolute honesty in the
eyes of everybody coming and going in the entrance of
Hanson's. Mark and Sara hugged the piss out of us and
Dragged us through the store insisting they buy us a few
groceries. They also hooked me up with a tasty pouch
of pine chron and have forever since poured me
overflowing drinks from their bar.

All my good deeds have come back to bless me. All my
bad deeds bless me too. Fuck ye.

This last weekend was no exception.

Me and bunnik popped in to visit Delbert Ward and
Annie Joule for lots of whiskey and vodka, and damn
good snacks. Delbert is a chef par excellence and
Annie keeps plenty of booze around, so much I can
afford to play on and around the no-host bar.

As they were winding down, me and bun make a hasty
retreat allowing our two kind barts time to go to
their respective apartments. They both start work at 6
in the morning, so we book no later than 8 pm.

On our way out we found a killer pocketknife on the
ground in front of the 41 unit.

On our Saturday stroll bun found an old collectible
coin in the dirt. Which is cool enough, but on our
final stretch up Caribou Street we found a muddy
little purse with a roll of twenties, tens, fives and
ones inside it. No name, no ID, nothing.

Judging by the location and the road grader and ice
melt run off, it's a safe guess this find was aging
since last winter. Treasure Island mates.

As with Heaven on Earth: Hell is for the asking too.

Most days I see truly fucked up kids staggering out of
the little shack across the street early every
morning. That's when I feel I'm in hellish
surroundings.

I'm such a dumb ass, some days I'll put on my hat,
coat and gloves, jog across the street and raise hell
with the impaired retards constantly partying, smoking
and hanging around there.

Last few mornings, I've pushed, punched and slugged
the whole lot of them. No shit, I'll kick the door
open, march in and pick fights with all of 'em whilst
yelling at 'em to 'get the fuck out.'

Yup, the hooligan males can't resist thinking they're
gonna git a piece of a big ol' white dude that can't
fight fer shit. Whereupon I happily toss, flip and
pound the living shit outa kids that really oughta
take some boxing lessons from Squish and the Sgt and
wrestling lessons from Columbo.

Like bringing a knife to a gunfight, them poor fuckers
really should also pack a lunch and bring their mommas
along before they take a swing at me. Fun, fun: I'm
happy to improperly fold and pound the shit outa the
drunken girls that fly at me too.

If you've received any police reports about some tall
white man beating the piss outa whole gangs of drunken
native kids, don't know what to tell ye. Wasn't me. My
sore hands and feet are from long walks and typing too
much. Fuck ye.

If I dwell on the little native kids so drunk I can
stack 3 at a time, I'm also delving back into Hell.

When I follow Siberian Witch Doctrine derivative of
ancient remote seeing and Christian antidotes to
primitive evil, I'm cool as shit.

Being raped and pillaged is the fait a compli destined
these fucked up little drunken monkeys. For me to
respond with boner eliciting violence, I'm taking time
away from my light-speed and voluminous writing.

Tourette's Syndrome is a natural high, so is
hyperactivity: beating hell out of shitty little ice
niggers ain't.

I think I’m losing my place again. Catharsis? Maybe.

Epiphany? Sure, I'll buy that.

The dodgy lesson I'm grasping to get my puny mind
around is quite simple really. Heaven and Hell are
both found here on Earth. It's my attitude that
determines which is which. Make sense?

Ain't none of ye should feel like Hercules. The
world's troubles needn't burden your gnarly shoulders.
Mine neither, ‘cept my hands and feet sure fucking
hurt.

Karluk from Hell: Heaven sent of course.

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