"And the work of a thousand dreams boiled over into the soup, a cream of all things forgiving. The lasting absolute tragedy is still unknown." -GENERAL Provolone Jackson
I've never been to Montreal, from what I hear it's dirty, full of whores and for "those in their late 20's looking to live cheap in hostels or bum daycares." Someday I will cook skirt steaks and sweat last nights drink over cutting boards, roam Montreal late into the morning mumbling about Telluride and ancient black and white film festivals that lasted only for one despairing year. For the time being let's call Aspen home, home is where the fat is.
It's Christmas eve, the day before jewbear walked on the moon played synthesizer for the MASTER KEEPERS back in 2004 and was excusably hung out to dry in the sub zero shit frost of the primitive dinosaur valley of dreams. Screams where heard from miles as broken piano keys, BLACK AND WHITE fell like pouring rain. REMEMBER PROGRESS. NO LIMITS ANYMORE. ONE IS STILL NOT ENOUGH. But at times one can be just too much. Too much to handle, sometimes certain folk should be wiped clean from the play ground, sometimes, Thorazine cocktails are still not enough.
.
The (RMF's) ramble into the Gomorrah that is Aspen Colorado, America's riches little town. Small town mystique with a flare of uncontrollable money rage and old fashion greed. I'm not saying it's a horrible place to reside, it's fantastic as a Tour-on center for payments due and accessible social contrasts as viable as breeding it's self. It's like a burning painting that never goes out the art on the canvas never changes but the fire rages on, still as admirable as it was in the first hour of torch. Art parties are fun, camping in the woods like a fucking rebel seals my deal, McDonald's in the mourning like another sanctuary city in America is fabulous, pretending to be a surgeon on the bus is a hobby best done after a long and exhausting night of drugs and drinking. This is the loaned behavior of Ted Kennedy, surly and drunk...carried from Bar to Drinking House, where Hunter S. Thompson breathed cocaine behind a man using a newspaper as a shield all at the Hotel Jerome J BAR. Things come close, passing cars, to spend forty winks beneath creaking bridges when it's 5 degrees, howling nerves at all times of day, beers with the toxicity of thee finest malt beverages east of the Mississippi and better than the filth of any inner city.
(BREAK)
It's Christmas Eve. The Year is almost beyond, I suggest we relinquish what remains as far-fetched and hang from the rafters, be thankful for our collective liveliness and pretend everything is as splendid, as splendid as once heard; as the soup overflows thy pot and sizzles into the sucking vents of our forgiveness.
See you in the afterbirth, yer friend...
-Gary Wilderness.
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"GARY WILDERNESS'
