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Immediate Post-Life
Summer Spent in the Murkan Mid-Atlantic: May 30 thru August 31, 2023
© 2023 James LaFond
Copyright James LaFond 2023
A Crackpot Book
Lynn Lockhart: Publisher
Dust Cover
The author, after having his final stick fights and boxing bouts, is stuck in the East preparing for post-life malingering via medical care. The following journal represents the writing that life forced upon that addled mind as it sought to only complete history and fiction projects.
Written under duress at the behest of some crueler muse.
For the Brickmouse, who has offered his nice house as a berth for the recovery of an unworthy sack of skin.
Inspirational Quote
“My Aunt, God rest her soul, was one of the good people. Me, I’m one of the bad people and I’m still here. What does that tell you about this world? She was the bright Ying and I am the dark Yang. You, I can figure—you’re all smooth with the light, but then you’re dark like me. So, just in case, if I get whacked—that being a hazard implicit in being a jerk in our wonderful hometown—then I expect you to avenge me.”
-A Man I coached in Knife Fighting last night, being Monday, June 5th, as he dropped me off at the Brickmouse House
The type of journalism I do, was developed to expand my ability to investigate certain mundane things, like human aggression, and to be able to write realistic—which is not to say believable in our fake construct—characters. Most readers will insist that the man above does not, could not, and at the very least should not, exist. Yet, last night he bought me dinner and insisted on stocking the liquor cabinet of my darling land lady. I accept what God and his wicked sisters The Fates send my wretched way. The circumstances of this specific miserable life are above my modest pay grade and I regard as none of my business.
Since returning east my ears have rung like electric sirens, and my eye has sizzled like a my hand once did when I grabbed those live wires under a frozen food case in 1991. I have grown convinced that something or someone is stalking me. It is only a feeling supported by odd coincidences and strange sendings, insane people in obvious pane who have sought me out across the country, seemingly and in public according to some insensible giddy impulse.
This past Saturday, the 3rd I was threatened by an insane Bantu as I hobbled to the bank in Somewhere, New Jersey. Later that day I was threatened by a casual acquaintance of some five years, a philosopher with numerous publish works to his credit, if he discovered that his suspicion that I was a Goboment Agent were confirmed by yet more suspicion. I will not write about that event, as it involved third parties who are people I love.
On arriving in Baltimore yesterday I was approached by Bust a Move, an openly insane woman screaming and crying for my aid. The crazies have multiplied from among stranger kind in my life. So, amidst this, when a fellow dark spirit from the unhappy dusty corners of Murican life, contacts me for counsel; for advice, training and brotherhood—for he too is being sought out by random crazies—then I sense a quickening. That quickening, from under my tin foil sombrero, seems to be that the metaphysical underpinnings of this fake world are reshaping reality. Reality, as most people determine the visible world around them, is to me, merely a construct projected out of the Invisible World that we are not privy to. The over welming surge of insane people, to you might be drug addicts, but to me they are sendings from beyond. The Evil Gods are either sending the insane like T-cells to wipe out We the Virus, or are driving people insane on an inner level that compels them to seek out the random stranger who seems most at peace and either attach or attack.
I’d rather be attacked at this point.
Or, perhaps it is just me that is pulling apart. Perhaps I have simply lost my mind and the electric signaling in my head and the severe pain in my eye is merely a symptom of my poorly deserved demise.
I can tell you this, that college educated white people, now fill me with deep dread. I can hear the induction in their voice. I can see them seeking puppets for conduction into their zombie inferno. I am terrified of white people now. They seem more and more like blank bio-slates that the evil powers of the overworld etch their whims upon and unleash like a torrent on the few unwashed souls left bobbing down this terrible river of the damned.
I was alone on an extended bus yesterday with 60 feral negroes, total savages, most, kind souls some. They overlooked the weird old beard in the rucksack in the corner. But earlier that day as I sat on the train to Baltimore, packed with New Yorkers, going to Washington D.C. to work, all cipher-like whites of various hues, all speaking the same dialect with the same empty eyes and needy voices, tapping away on their laptops, I was gawked at like a zoo exhibit. Two beautiful woman [0], three men, and one crippled old woman, whose faces mine accidentally met as I hauled on my ruck and made to exit the train in Baltimore, a place none of those on my car were headed, looked at me like that black pygmy held in a British zoo some 120 years ago.
Some of these episodes will be told in detail in the early pages of his work. I will then strive to write as little to nothing as possible in this journal and keep my little eye use for important work. This will hopefully be my slimmest book ever writ, limited to the ten or so pages I intend to write today and tomorrow covering June 3rd in ‘Suck Mah Dick Merka’ and June 5th [1] on the bus in ‘Bust A Move’ Baltimore.
There is a problem with my writing mind in that I have great difficulty in not continuing the Harm City journalism and the burglarizing of mass transit conversations.
The initial two chapters, hopefully part 1 and 2 of this entire miserable journal, will be titled and hopefully written tomorrow:
‘Suck Mah Dick Merka’
Profile of the Patel Brothers American Empire: Somewhere, New Jersey, June 3, 2023
‘Bust a Move’ Baltimore
On Baltimore City Buses from Penn Station, Charles Street to Hamilton: June 5, 2023
-0. Looked like a Bollywood pinup girl, had gone to the Frank Sinatra School of the Arts and was working for an NGO in D.C. and Argentina before going into acting full time. My one eye did inspect her ample bustline while hoisting on the ruck as her big blue eyes regarded me with fear over her pouting ruby lips.
-1. Those miserable Manhattan/DC white people, aspiring to their cartoon riches, do not deserve to be trivialized in this rough screed. The pathetic, apish, chanting Groes on the green Line, hopefully one of their number having just been shot by that large caliber revolver that sounded to the west just now, do possess the virtue of entertaining anticisms and will be remembered below...yo.
Taking to the Night
harm city to chicongo
‘Suck Mah Dick Merka’
son of a lesser god
song of the secret gardener
by the wine dark sea
uncle satan
sons of aryаs
night city
book of nightmares
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