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Last day of September and I start seeing the California People in the Colorado People. Like as if the situations are either from some other time, past or future, or timeless, prototypical déjá-vus, but then again, we are of course smoking A LOT OF weed every day in a good number of days now.
I wonder if those stoners like us ever get anything big actually going, such as pulling off a five week rally for a random guy they might not necessarily be wanting to do business with to potentially sit on the county’s board of commissioners.
So, this whole story might or might not receive a dash of political flavor. There’s a bunch of elections coming up and the green farmers of Hippie Delta U.S.A. feel a growing urge to have their interests represented at the appropriate level now.
Provided always that they actually do know what they want outside of making a lot of easy money.
Making my way back to the cats in the press shop thru tender is the mountain night. I mean just to get things straight.
All those Boys ever really want is to press some glistening fancy buttons on heavy machinery all the while getting high as fuck.
Now the sheriff’s on their tail though and something’s got to happen. They must have made shitloads of money, paying eighty grand in trimmers alone, but that was last year, and the careless splendor of those cotton candy days is still lost and forever probably.
Not even two weeks since I first got here, and yet I’m being sucked right into this giant hazy vortex, sitting down at the inauguration meeting of what might turn into a political landslide or at least it should be fun to watch.
The joints are huge and so are the pizzas they had coming. Classic Americana, one is tempted to say, and straight to the ice cream it is, together with a serious series of high-powered dabs, and that’s how they roll out here pretty much.
(Taken from “The Grotto“)
Wednesday, 17th of January 2018. It’s been a while, but here’s a new book to read eventually. The Grotto is an experimental piece of work, as to be expected, it’s bilingual, molecular, hazy and metamodern, of course. On top of that, The Grotto is somewhat of a historic document by now, written down in the last days of what they call the Pre-Trump America, long lost and forgotten.
Special shoutouts go to Pietro O’Rourke from Hamtramck, Michigan, for his patient editing, to Gonzalo de la Fuente for the groot cover drawing, and last but not least to Sebastian Schellenberger from Heidelberg, for his loving care on the difficult homestretch in the printing process.
Here’s some more details on the book and where to get it.
Close to high noon in Dab City U.S.A.
Still seeking shade from the Rocky Mountain sun, still at the base of the All-American flagpost, still in the very center front of Union Station, still turned all upside down everything. The same old Union Station, or is it, all new and shiny, where I last got off from the the California Zephyr, some five years to the date, the year before they went all recreational in the state of Colorado.
In the state of today, there’s Ten Thousand People coming in here every month, the Steve Jobs lookalikes will keep telling you on the all new busses turning into the all new bus stations, not even counting The Hobos. But that’s only what I didn’t say.
And all of this is happening just because of the weed, I asked the Steve Jobs lookalike, who said he had taken a class on the roots of all this cannabusiness, but I couldn’t tell if he had figured it out or if it just had gotten him more confused. Nobody can tell, not even me, better to curb my attitude before it even starts building up. Read more →
61’ Hi Freaks, says the modern day Tom Sawyer. He knows the panic rooms to their shitshow, he’s been all over them high country airports.
What he still doesn’t know is what’s really cooking out there at Denver International, halfway into Kansas. Do they just pad it down on Peña Boulevard, do they simply think otherwise, do they talk in code, like all the way on Arizona Two Six Four?
What he doesn’t know still is which type of pretzel logic they fancy, building museums of their own breed, where obscurity goes up on trial. They is a strong word in just any conspiratorial stance, the strongest one in all the facts behind the facts. They, with all the dark powers on their invisible hands. Building a showroom of theyr very own device is such a smart move on behalf of the secretive society, visitors are welcome indeed. It is at the same time the cut-throat argument of any deluded moron dealing in alternative truth, because he can always argue that THEY just did that, build that exact showroom, to hide THEYR true intentions and underhanded agendas. Read more →
RIPPLES RUN ACROSS THE PUDDLES, as I am walking down Flushing Avenue in Brookland, Tuesday after my brief excursion to Philly. I’ve sassily occupied the couch at Metropolitan House, expert at irreverent self-invitation that I’ve become. Also, there was no other way, so I had to ask, it’s the best way, a thief asking thieves on a hangover afternoon, all out front.
Da, said Macha when I called her on the telephone later on, but then she was half asleep, toasting her bread in the pan in a living room without windows. This splendid creamy state of a transient mind. She only speaks Russian in her dreams and thought it was her father calling. Which might be true after all, at half my age it’s scary to witness how much she knows. Eventually, I hope, she’s the last of the news sisters in this global village of fine lines and close misses.
In New York, you can walk the streets all day, as Allen Ginsberg said, but it will turn night before you start crying. “Or dat you zee da soul of da hauzes”, as the Belgian Kid would put it in her unmistakable chopped accent.
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