Reading What Rules

Oct 06, 2008 15:24 # 46044

zen *** feels excited about...

What rules: Prov'dence (pt. 1)

Went back to Prov'dence this weekend. It was a quiet week in Lake Woebegon....
Actually, Sunday was painfully slow...Therapeutically slow. However, Friday and Saturday were awesome.
Well, almost awesome. I didn't get any this time around, so that was disappointing--again. (haha)

Let me go back in time two weeks. I met with a travel companion, Rev. Mikey D-head-space-Spazio, who accompanied my to Sherman, NY for the Church of the Sub-Genius quintessential sub-Genius event: X-day (drill) 11. I enjoy hanging out with him because he is indeed exciting, has stuff going on, and is fun to hang with, and has a great bunch of friends up there on The Hill. So what if he does tend to ramble on abit about some stuff we're not all interested in, but that's him. At least he's not afraid to talk to the ladies that we're out at the club, and that's a good thing--most of the time.
Last time we started the weekend by visiting friends on Plesent St., who have a kegerator. At about $700- it ain't cheap, but Tobe insists that it's the best invention/machine he's ever invested in. I don't know if I would rank it up there that high, expecially not for that kinda money, but I will say this much: I'm NOT a hater--I LUV the kegerator. The thing has actually paid for itself, cause you know, noone drinks for free.
Later that night we went to a club in Pawtukkket; the nave of which dive I have by now forgotten. Of course, this was one of the pictures that I never took, I believe, the name of said club. However, since I still haven't looked at the pictures from that night...still...don't ask me why, I'm actually not quite sure if I do indeed have pictures, nee captures, of said sign denoting said club.
The band was Muss, led by front man Russel Muss. It was basically dead, especially for a Fri. night. The drinks were cheap enough, although all draughs in this rinky-dink club were all gone, and we were only left with Bud, or some stupid sh*t. The ban was decent, and I got a bunch of minutes on my camera of the show, but I know it was so dark in there that it'll be impossible to see them without seriously adjusting the Gamma, or whatever. So that's gonna be fun...when ever i ever get that.
But I got to meet the band, to some extent, and I'm gonna ask them if they'll play at my nephew's birthday party, whenever we do that.
So the next day we roamed around the basement of the Community Center where he works, where there was all sorts of crap like desks, and excercize equiptment, and all sorts of other stuff that people donated, computers, screen protectors, and we were looking over it all from a kid's perspective. What could we use these timers and wires that were recently uninstalled from the wall. There was a bank of like 30 of these wonderful machines with wheels and neat gears that were all always running, always eating electricity. The building is a converted mill, and those are its vestigial orifii.
So, while those parts, and all the sundry STUFF that has accumulated isn't really worth the time and energy to scrap it, undoubtedly these trinkets, and a bunch of other things downthere, were worth something definable. They will make excellent art projects for the kids, cause the older ones would have to use tools to disassemble the machines, so it would teach a little bit on how things are put together.

Later that night we went to a campfire. Mikey heard "bonfire", and that term, apparently, does not mean the same thing to everybody. To me, a bonfire is a BIG F*CKING FIRE. PERIOD. What we had there was campfire...even after that one "big" log was thrown on.
Now, before talking about that, let me mention something about the Green Goo, as we took to calling it. My friend's girlfriend's roommate got ahold of some Peruvian Cactus weeks before. I'm certain in Peru there's more than one type of Cactus. It may therefore be more accurate to say Cactus of Peru. Be that as it may, it is alleged that this botanical delicacy is akin to Peyote. I was willing to give it a go. We were told that because these were old, they weren't that strong, so the experience would be relatively mild for someone with experience in these things. She was correct.
The 10 oz glass jar was about half full of these drab green wrinkled marbles. Apparently, the proper protocol to ingestion is that one would take about half dozen, and chew on those alittttle bit--as much as you might dare, nasty-tasting as they are. Actually, chewing them wasn't that bad tasting. The next step is to soak the rest of them in water for abit. After soaking, you want to throw them in a blender, with a little more water untill it's a mass of green goo, about the consistency of grape jelly.
So, while it was light, we got organized, and worked it out. By the time we found where we were goiong, and pulled into the farm, it was dark. We were ready to get into some primal fire-kind-sh*t. The first fire we found was the neighbors. That "clothesline" is in fact an electroifed wire, so be carefull; they were kind enough to point us in the right direction. About half-mile walk down the access road we get to the farm. A huge functioning farm which, at dark, is hard to tell what's what.
Around the fire was a fairly large group of, oh 40 to 50 people listening to a man and woman playing a guitar and accordian, respectively. Folk songs, and period derges that none of us knew, but were listening, rapt to. I really was starting to feel good, and at peace with things, and being in this much touch with nature. There was about half of the crowd who were female, and all that I could see were very cute.
Mike and I were talking about Astrology, and our signs, continuing the conversation we'd been having all day. I joked:
"Know what I like best about being a water sign?"
"No, what is it?"
"Putting out you firesigns...haha"
Of course that's a joke, cause my sun sign is Libra, Air, but I do have a number of houses with water signs--but I digress.
So, a few minutes later, a very pretty, young lady comes up to me and starts me.
"I overheard you say something about being a water sign..."
"Yeah, it was just a joke, really."
"It was funny, I heard it"
"Thank you."
"My name is Zen," I say, putting out my hand to shake hers.
"Pleased to meet you. I'm Muffy."
"Uh, Muff-ffee?" I ask in the same tone of voice which indicates one has just swallowed a live, living, wriggling goldfish. Given a word, I think it would have to be distain.
"Muffy!?! Noone ever names their kid Muffy. Something wrong with that."
"well, it's a nick name. My real name is"--something I can't recall.
I said, "that's just such the stereotype of the rich bitch...I can't go out tonight because Daddy's got my SLK," I said, feigning an aristocratic lilt to my voice. She chuckled.
"Oh, I can be the rich bitch, and all that if I want to."
"Well, I'm sure that works very well out here on the farm with the cows and veggies." She chuckled again.
"Ok, first, I've never met an actual Muffy before. I thought that was only something they do in the movies, like in 16 candles, to be the butt of pre-pubescent boys' locker room jokes. Muffy, is never a name you want to give to a respectable girl."
"No guy," I continue, now on a beautiful, flowing roll, "will ever look at you as a real person with a name like that. We will foreever, even if just in our minds" want to shorten that wonderful name down to: Muff, plain and simple."
So, of course, for the rest of the night I was calling her that. And she was completely digging it. She smiled everytime I said it--because, of course, I was having so much fun calling her by her new name: Mufffffffffffff.
In between sips of Miller GD, we wer taking shots from the green goo. It tasted nasty, thank Dobbs for the chaser.
The band changed. There was now a duet of a saxaphonist, and a drummer. This drummer, however, did not play his instrument as a percussion of any kind. He played his drum, and the many bronze "cymbal-like" disks affixed to the tuning pegs, the keys. He played the drums as a stringed instrument, where the bow was run across the edges of these small, thick bronze disks, and the all resonated in varying high-pitched frequencies, much like those who play champaign glasses as a musical instrument. The sax-ist, merely echoed, and provided counter-point to his statements.
Everyone was reverent, and quite, and respectful and boring. That is, everyone but me and Mikey-D. He, by our agreement, took more than I did, and he was definitely feeling it. He was actually grooving to some foreign beet and rhythm in tune with the musicians. The only problem is that noone else could get into it. The music detailed some foreign musicscape, in the sense that Brian Eno occupies a unique real estate with his musical visions.
So of course, there had to be a confrontation between us and "them", but to the point of an exchange of philosophies, and ideologies.
The girl next to Mikey says,"you should be quite, and listen."
"This is the real jazz, we're seeing real jazz here, live, right in front of you."
We both felt the same, that this was such a unique even it really should be appreciated by audience participation, in some form, hopefully not a distracting way. Of course, our singed minds from the Muss show the night before definitely brought a spark of life to an otherwise anemic crowd.
Let me set the stage. It's outside, we're at a farm with nothing around for miles, and noone for miles around that cares, or will complain. These folks are obviously somewhat adventurous, to come out to a "bonfire" on a Saturday night.
"This isn't a seance, for dobb's sake," I added.
We could see some heads nodding in agreement. Seems that some of the people agree with our viewpoint: being stony silent and completely silent is, well, kinda like being selfish, at least as far as the musician is concerned. As a performer, you want your work appreciated.
So while this discussion was going on, and the drummer kept playing the bronze platters as windchimes, a friend of Muffffff's sat down next to me. Clio was amazing. We talked about Nina Simone, the singer/songwriter from wayback. We talked about all the Insane Asylums and Institutions I've toured, for pictures. I showed her a 10 minute movie on my Archos AV700, of the footage of Norwich State Hospital. We both agreed that we wanted to visit Danvers, in Ma. Clio knew about the Steelyard, and has taken classes there. And on it went.
Uh, no, i didn't get her number.
Eventually, it was time for everyone to leave, and Clio and her friend left last. I did what I could to get her to stay, but she said I'll see you out here I guess that's my motivation to get back to Pipin's.
Mikey and I volunteered to stay till the end, and watch the fire. We left about 1am, after locating a 12 pack that had gotten left behind of beer.

The next day, Sun, we hung out with Mike's gf for a bit, and ran errands, trying to recouperate.
Eventually, I got to meet her roommate, yet another of the RI Print Makers, and she was amazing. Very pretty, likeable, and smart. She knows about the Steelyard, and all sorts of tidbits of facts about metalurgy, and the like. She was getting some ideas down on paper for an upcoming show that she's going to be hung in. Ideas aren't coming...maybe a few beers will help. She doesn't want to step out of her groove to get any beers, and besides she's been dry for a bit. We'll catch up later.
We walk the block away to an amazing Pub called E&O's Tap. Awesome place, with just the right atmosphere. I got to meet the two daughter's of the owner. Willa and Glena were both amazing.
Soon as I go in, I look at the names on tap. I want to try the Stone Coast. 1 for me, one for Mikey, and a shot of Yukon. I ask my server what she likes. Glena tells me that she like the Milk Stout. Willa comes up to me and asks my name. She tells me that's also her best friend's name. That's amazing. She's amazing, and full of life, and warmth. I tell her this. I tell her that I'd like to be her newest really good friend. She catches me staring at her ass in the bar mirror, and she lets me. She turns to me so I can see more of that thick, sweet ass of hers.
I got a draugh with a German name, pronounceable to her because her father's german, and owns the bar.
"That's cool" I say. "Must cut down drastically on guy's trying to pick you up."
"Oh no," she says," you'de be surprised."
"Hmmm, actually, I don't think I would. You're hot as f*ck," I tell her. "Who wouldn't want to try to pick you up?!"
She smiled.
About 9pm rolls around, and it's time to go. My weekend in RI is rapidly coming to an end. I ask her what her schedule is, I have to come back again. Going back to school she tells me...maybe on the weekends.
We were joking to the very end. She brought us both a glass of water, for the bags-of-mostly-water.

Back at the apartment, the roommate is now cooking, having given up grandiose ideas of finishing the project that night, and of staying dry. The two girls have finished a bottle of red wine, in the time we were gone. She's cooking risoto. It smells amazing. She's a great cook--near as I can tell.
I talk with the roommate for abit, while my buddy and his gf are talking. I realize just how amazing an special this person is. We talk a little about wines, and what is what. She is using a bowl that was created using a raku process. I can identify this on sight. I tell her that I can identify raku, and turkey feathers on sight. She's mildly impressed. We talk more about the Steelyard.
I'm starting to fall deeply in love with her mind. She's an individual, and artist, a real person. It might be a matter of love, but I don't really know her that well. Like I told my friend, I can see the value of an interesting, unique person; and she most definitely exceeds that. She's amazing.

So, after that, I decided that I'd come back in two weeks, this weekend, and celebrate my birthday, somehow.

Once Fred Neitszche declared God is Dead, f*ck became the most important word in the English languag

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