FANTASY!

It's fantasy time, fantastic!

This is a simple fantasy. A very large man, over 8feet tall, and not wearing much for clothes and somewhat hairy and maybe a little dirty with a big beard. This man grabs and slams my face down into some grass. He places one of his very large bare feet on my back and steps down as if he were going to squash me. At having this done to me, I begin to struggle and sprawl but despite my efforts to escape I am no match for his savagery. Then with one of his hands he grabs both my feet by the ankles while still with that foot of his on my back and he pulls up hard on my legs as if he was trying to pull me apart. For a second I feel as if, I really might come apart but then my back creaks and I sigh with a spine intact and perfectly in line.

Leaves That Get Carried Away

It was a sleepy afternoon, yes, no one was really awake enough to be paying much attention. A warm wind running its fingers through the leaves has a way of, well, making one ignore the unpleasantries around them, or even suspecting that they are in fact, unpleasantries. Absolutely perfect, undeniably, that is the way to describe her. That wooshing sound, the rushing calm breezing by and zooming away. Oh I am nothing much, just a bit of soft air chiming in here and there.

She fell asleep in the tire swing,I walked up and blew gently on her face, I'm just the wind little leaf...

An old women walking her dog strolls by and I immediately say to her "G'day Misses, really couldn't be better could it?"

"Oh I really don't think so, lovely little thing you've got there. Me and Coco are on our way to do a bit of napping ourselves," she says without ever really stopping and hardly needing to slow down. She just stretches her voice a bit to get it here and there and leaves the wind to do what it will with her words.

I pick the leaf up out of the tire swing stirring below the tree, and I carry it away.

Miles and Miles and Miles we drift. A blowing, gusty nothing, that is all I am. She rises and falls and soars to places. but never really begs to be set down. And then when I'm done twirling her, I deposit her on the ground, to let her whither, and crumple. I bow out and blow away to the next set of leaves to rustle. I am nothing, nothing much.

The tattered remains of nothingness

Our last time together

We didn't always used to be very close friends; I used to distrust him on account of his involvement with the military. Overtime however, I learned to see past the cold, metallic camouflage that one quickly learns to put on in the army, or else die rather gruesomely. It may have disguised your weaknesses, prevented certain undesirable information (I need not say more than this, dear reader!) from becoming conceived of, but Sam, I am weak now, I am the one gruesomely dying. I have nothing to hide because I have nothing.

Only the stubborn memories of summer evenings are left, when we were caught somewhat alone lurking through the forest performing certain maneuvers (of strolling along gaily). I would kiss the lip of a vodka bottle, and drink its intoxication. You were my Vodka bottle Sam. But I didn’t get to finish you, not even most of you. You never got the chance to run out, no, you had to be smashed into the ground because someone wanted to look powerful.

I would open you up Sam, curiously look at what you were made of, and lovingly touch a few of your parts because I knew what you needed to keep going. You were made of fire Sam, brilliantly glowing flames that only that damn metal could contain. That flaming core of yours was aching, would die to only be set free on a more docile, and abandoned world that one can only reach after falling through heaven and clouds. You would land again and shatter into a billion little glowing orbs of light that would mix in with the rest and the world would be noticeably brighter. Oh my dear Sam, why did you have to leave me, and give yourself up as only a little bang for only a little bird. That’s all they thought you could give Sam, but I know that wasn’t the only thing inside you. You were no lover of war, but war sure as hell loved you.

Now though, I look where you used to lay, where you were sleeping before you stood up to get ready one last time, and I see your shape. A rough outline of you is haunting me, and I can’t fill in the rest.

How to be a better hipster through cigarettes

Let's face it, being so cool that you force everyone that idly passes you by to have a reaction, a momentary collapse of their preconceived and totally inculcated consumer-based coolness. You are a reactionary, a sexy little impetus that provokes for the sake of provocation and promotes nothing on the basis that all thought is merely a formation of the culture and academic apparatus. You know what epistemology is, and you know that your knowing this is an impossibility in the metaphysical structure of language. I mean how could one deny the temporal and evolutionary aspect of language, to know is only to perceive an artificial and contrived stasis. You could even compare it to the wave-particle duality of nature, that movement and location can not exist concomitantly because to see one is to loose the other and together they are mutually nothing. Words are virtual particles coming in and out of existence. EVERYONE wants a chance to fuck you, even though you put absolutely no effort into your fucking aesthetic, but you get that sort of slightly enigmatic glow anyway. You kind of pulsate, slightly expanding and contracting just a little bit more than most other people know how. Maybe you just have nice eyes.

Even though it's impossible to say what you are, because you believe in nothing, in what you aren't. You do smoke though. Cigarettes are a weapon for you. And safety. They are separation from us and them. What do you smoke though? Not the cigarettes of dawdling philistines. No camels or marlboros. Not menthols anymore. You roll your own. They kind of look like fat joints, and people sly stare as you twist them up and smoke away. Consider this a lesson.

STEP ONE: A furry brown guy and his white blanket. This step will test your general ability to interact with society, navigate ubran areas, and avoid detection. You need rolling papers and...











Not toothpaste. Not Tang. Rolling Tobbaco!


STEP TWO: Connotations. Step Two will be much more difficult than the first step, but the battle will not be on the outside, it will be within. You will need to find a connotatively acceptable surface to role your cigarette on. Because you are still learning it is ill advised that you try to skip this test, as not only is midair rolling for the novice dangerously prone to making you look like a mediocre poser, but it is an important step in the development of what kind of roller you will be. You want a surface that somehow projects an impossibility of uncoolness, a super-dense chunk of meaning that makes the world around it sag insipidly. Careful what your mind reaches for.













Nice for hipster sex, but nothing else. Kerouac is hipster suicide. Grammatology bingo! And it's translated by Gayatari Spivak! You won't be just constructing a cigarette, but deconstructing it as well. Or did you do that already?



STEP Three: Hopefully you've made it this far and are ready to actually get to the business of rolling your very own cigarette! This step will test your ability to prepare the cigarette. You will need a good natural sense of mass, density, humidity, texture and a sense of unity and equality. This task is straightforward but still a nightmare. Even the most experienced of rollers occasionally misjudge the initial pinch the ever long pursuit of the archetypal cigarette that exist in the mind of every true roller. You must trust yourself here, but be keen enough to recognize your weaknesses. Once you have the tobacco sorted, the matter of evenly displacing it and packing it down slightly is somewhat less complicated. You can never take the first pinch back though.










Knives are standard equipment for life but are useless here. Stapler is certainly creative and thought provoking, but not exactly efficient and reasonable. Fingers it is!


STEP FOUR: Breaking through. This is perhaps the most essential step to the entire process, but also probably the hardest. Once you get it, you will never know how you didn't get it before. The great secret of rolling cigarettes lies in the sacred movements of the roll itself. There is that invisible moment that you never truly see but you are immediately aware of afterward, when the cigarettes folds in on itself and ceases to be tobacco and paper, and becomes a cigarettes. The secret is this is no act of the hands and fingers. Certainly there is a type of stalking between the fingers and paper, a seduction. But the fingers are merely for praying, and for prying open a frontier in your mind where you enter the absent space that the true moment the cigarette is rolled lies. There is nothing physical about this moment. It is not temporal and not spatial, it is an essence of something. The rolling happens in your mind and there is a fracture in time where there was no cigarette on one side of the point and a cigarette on the other but no space in between.

What will you conjure?