Homeless in paris

In tenth grade I went to paris. And I didn't even realize I was there.

In eleventh, I passed through on my way to Belgium.

In twelth, I bought a ticket, and fell in love with the "city of light". I wouldn't leave, I missed my flight. I stayed a few extra months. But as my age grew and my time in paris began shrinking, and the cafes that held the poetry nights were turning off their lifes, and my visas expiration date a few days away, I left my bags, and ran. I did all the things that I never did before: I saw the eifell tower, I went to the louvre, I saw all the sights, and toured all the museums, I even hopped on a tour bus. I winded up behind a shoe repair shop and did the only thing I came to Paris to do: I painted a poem.

I gave up my life, I gave up the temporary job that the program I was enrolled in gave me, I left the house that I lived in, I ran, I took all my savings and bought a little furnished apartment. I didn't (and still don't) speak french--it's hard to get a job in paris if you can't talk to anyone--so over the months I sold my belongings, starting with the T.V., then the couch, then the bedside table, then the rug, then my clothes, my books, my records, my bed sheets, my shoes, I sold everything, I wore the exact same clothes every day for three months, I'm skinny and malnurished, and every night I lie awake thinking of what Paris used to be, and the girl who left me, I think of how foolish I am, and that question that I was never able to answer: "Why did you ignore the warnings?" and the afterthought is imminent:  "You knew that paris had (and still does have) one of the highest unemployment rates, and the same goes with homeless rates." I shoot up heroin to dull the pain, to forget about what I had, when I'm passed out, I dream of Alaska. Yesterday mourning I woke up, it was goddamn freezing, so I tore the wallpaper--to use it to start a fire in a gallon size can of tomato soup--but underneath the repetitive flower print, was the sillouette of New York, I've never been to New York, but I knew what it meant.

I can't afford a plane ticket out of here. The rent was due today, I only had 40 euros.
I got kicked out of my appartment, they didn't return my deposit--obviously.
I walked to the train station, bought myself some skag and another saringe, I walked into a resturant and stole a spoon. I borrowed a lighter and hopped a train to nantes.

There is this river outside of Nantes, it's called "the loire" my plan is to take one last hit, and drown myself in it. I was never going to leave paris, I should be in college. I should be doing something with my life. I shouldn't have let her leave. I shouldn't have drowned Mila. The ice never broke. Using her scarf, I suffocated her, and then smashed her head against the ice, it wouldn't break through, so I walked to shore and found a rock, and pounded and pounded till there was a hole big enough to fit her into.

I was never going to leave Paris. I might as well die here. I was never going to go to Alaska, I was never going to see the glaciers or fishing boats or the forests, I was never going to get her back.

I'll never leave France. Even if they fly me back to the states, my soul will remain in this country, my spirit will float down the loire, the animals and birds will drink me up, and my soul will end up as pigeon shit on every statue in Paris.

The Novels

 

 

 

You aren't anything, without me.

With much envy, Death.

Church of the Broken Axe Handle

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OZbH6gzsqto

Church of the Broken Axe Handle by Derrick C. Brown, from his collection 'Scandalabra'.

I can't say enough. Every line, is so good, so perfect. I wish there really was a church like this.

Ode to Irvine Welsh

"An thas whein starit runnin', tha wee palice officas litele feets tryin tae move a bit fasta, bu their fat asses can't keep up. maist of em are prety slow. thas why none uv us ave ever been caught. me an tha boys, one store ta tha next. faces on posters en maist uv the stores en  es litle shitole uv a town"

"Wait, so, are you saying that none of you have ever been caught?"

"Well, obviously we ave, but neva if we saw em cawmin"

"Like in the incident where your brother was shot?"

"Yeah, jus like that. E'll all be shootin' up in mother superiors kitchen, an have tha door kickit in an all run fer tha winda, bu tha litle palice officas ill all be awaitin et tha battum uv tha fire escape. But if were ona train an decide ta take some litle lateys purse when we guh ta get off, an some palice officas stanin en tha station an sees us, ell we git away evry time"

"Could you, explain what happened to your brother?"

"Eah, I gess could. Bu furst, he wount my brotha. I took em unda me wing when we wa yanga."

"And, gave him heroin?"

"Yeah. he woulda foun it imself."

"Do you hold yourself responsible for his death?"

"Eh. Every dae. Now, ya wanda knao wha happent ta him er jus sit an paint fingas?"

"Sorry, please, as you were saying,"

"I took em unda me wing when we wa yanga, shawed im is real famiy."

"who was?"

"Me, sick boy, mother superior, and darcy. Mother Superior ist bout ten years older then all of us. Is parens died when he wast yunga and as uset their life savins ant insurance money ta fund awll uv our addicshins. Anywae, we wast at a train stashion an decitet ta snag ourselves sum money, Sick Boy braught is  itle gun wit im, an as it urns up tha itle prick we triet ta roub was a undacuhvae palise offica, and he tries ta arres us an so we staret ta run, and he firet uh few shawts sa Sick Boy firet a few back, bu what he dint know was that me brathae, mista hunt, wast bein eld by tha palice offica."

"So what are you doing in here?"

"I wast so fuckin pist at em all, Sick boy, Mother Superior, the palice officas, me parents, evrywon, so I wint off ant kellet em."

In the house, speaking in the tounge of sailors.

"You're, you're just, just, you're just always so fucking angry. It drives me crazy, why can't you just fuckin' lighten up? Take a god damn joke."

"Oh, oh, alright, okay, so this is uh, this is because I have no fucking sense of humor? You wanna hear joke or something?"

"Yeah I'd fucking love to hear a fuckin' joke from you."

"Is that gonna make you stop fucking everyone you meet?"

"It was--f-for Christs sake Gene, do you have to put every argument we have back to these little isolated inci--"

"Don't you dare pull that shit with me; every argument we have is becasue you've been fucking someone"

"Oh bullshit."

"Oh real fuckin' lady-like,"

"Are you really gonna talk to me about manners? Mr. Sailormouth."

"Oh, that was real fucking clever Annie. No, no, I'm truly honestly surprised at the amount of wit that you have."

"You are such an ass."

"And, you, are fucking whore. No pun intended."

"Fuck you Gene."

"Is it because I'm not successful?"

"What?"

"Is it because I'm not successful? Are you just growing so sick of waiting around for me, paying the bills, like--just, I need to know."

"I don't love you."

"Why the hell do you stick around?"

"You always forgave me."

Smarts.

"Before he was 25, Nikola Tesla had already invented the induction motor...
I always thought that I would have found a cure for schizophrenia by 25."

I remember signing and dancing and joking. I remember days when I could leave my house. I remember being comfortable enough to make physical contact with someone. I remember feeling okay to hug someone, to hold a hand, to give a little smooch.
I remember being called. I remember my house only being the place where I slept. I remember standing in front of people with steady hands.
I remember being able to make friends with anyone.

Now i'm just nervous, I have panic attacks when I see words like "hang out". My personal space has more control over me then any drug I've taken. I stay mostly to my house. I have a little "nook" in my bedroom, filled with books. I watch five, maybe six episodes of crimanal minds a day. I watched the first season of wilfred in one sitting. The Star Wars saga is watched bi-weekly. I go days without phone calls or text messages. When someone asks me "Hey Gene, want to do something?" I spit out the first thing that comes to my head: oh, y'know.
Confused, they'll say "no, i don't." realizing what I've said I retort something like: oh, I'm not feeling well tonight, but thank you for the offer.
I ignore phone calls; it's easy for people to tell that you're lying when they can hear your voice.

Hearts.

 



"Barney, you really do wear your heart on your sleeve. Now put it away, it's disgusting to look at."

Benediction.

ˌbeniˈdik sh ən|

nounthe utterance or bestowing of a blessing, esp. at the end of a religious service.• ( Benediction) a service in which the congregation is blessed with the Blessed Sacrament, held mainly in the Roman Catholic Church.• devout or formal invocation of blessedness : her arms outstretched in benediction.• the state of being blessed : he eventually wins benediction.ORIGIN late Middle English : via Old French from Latinbenedictio(n-), from benedicere ‘wish

 

 

It felt like a benediction. I never thought we'd be like this--friends.
It seems like we were too cute to end, we were like that annoying jr. high couple that was always touching and tickling and kissing and hugging and all the shit I hated to do in public. But, you were too pretty.
I know that it's my fault, I didn't mean anything that I said, I was just tired I guess.
When you said "goodnight, drive safe.", I don't know, it was like you really meant it, like you had forgiven me, like what was done was done and everything was gonna be alright. It was like you were just glad to be with me, and you were looking forward to seeing me again. It was like we were gonna become like the love you see in the movies, not the lifetime movies, more like the weinstein company movies. quiet and silent, like being with each other is enough, like the silence is holding our affection.
I don't know, maybe I sound strange.

The Troopers.

I am just another clone, covered in white armor.
I was made to be a soldier, I was made to be obedient.
My ancestors turned on their jedi masters, in the middle of battle.

What can I do? for decades, the bastards on Kashyk have breed us to do whatever we are told.
do you know how that feels?
In the BSDS (Boy Scouts of the Death Star) My troop leader told me that I had to take off my armor,
and dress up like princess leia, when she was chained to jaba the hut, he then asked me to choke him.

I did it,
and i'm not proud. But, I had no control, i was made to be this way,
I was made to tell people to "Move along." and walk away from a door because it was already locked;
I was taught that if a door is locked, who/whatever I'm looking for, is not behind it.
I was made to shoot my blaster at giant spaceships, but I never learned how to hit them.

I am just another clone, covered in white armor.
Constantly teased.
But for all the things I am teased about, I must accept,
For these, and much more is who I am.
I am the force to a jedi.
I am the magical existence of oxygen in space everytime something in star wars explodes.
I am the fighter in the tai (no I'm not talking about space ships (Inapproite? who gives a shit))
I am the designer who decided that a hole as big as a womp rat looked good.
I am the architect that told the designer that if there is going to be a hole, it better have a purpose.
I am the drunk trooper that told the architect that "it would be cool if uhhh you like umm shot a laser inta uh a hole on the death star and like the whole fuckin' system would just like ya know, like fuckin'  blow  the fuck up, yeah man, that would be the fuckin' shit"
I am lukes robotic hands.
I am the light, to a lightsaber.
I am a storm trooper, and I am goddamn proud of my job.

listen up.

You've been given a direct order to rock the fuck out.
(This goes out to my homie Anis Mojgani)

Rock out like you've got the power of invisibility, and a room full of naked 10's.
Rock out like all you're the fastest reader on the earth.
Rock out like you just walked into your kitchen to find an unlimited amount of milk, and fruity pebbles.
Rock out like you just kicked Flash Gordons ass. Like Flash Gordon is bowing to you.
Rock out like you are on a victoria secret cruise and every other male passenger is dead.
Rock out like your mother is alive and it was your father that the devil took.
Rock out like you just out fucked nasa (that ones for my home boy Mitch Hedberg)
Rock out like you're a three time felon who just won a tony award (thats for Lemon)
Rock out like you can breathe under water, and every poem you ever blew is coming back together.
Rock out like you know everything there is to know about Star Wars, Like Lucas just announced he would be making three more Star Wars.
Rock out like you've just been given a Direct order.

The blood spills out like so much prose.

The grass is matted with blood,
and I'm still in love with you.

I will always be in love with you,
no matter how much of your blood stains the concrete,
or the carpet,
or tile,
or veneer,
or bed.

I will always be in love with you,
even though you've been gone for quite some time,
even though you did leave me here, and
never understood why I wrote those poems.

I will always be in love with you,
and you will always be on my mind,
whether in the orchard,
or the garden,
or tending to the animals, or walking the dogs.

You will always be on my mind,
no matter what book I'm reading
or poem I'm writing
or what notebook I'm burning
or what poorly lit photo I'm stubbing out my cigarette on.

I will always love you,
and you will always be on my mind,
even when the concrete,
the carpet
the tile,
the veneer,
and the bed are all growing more
and more
red.

The grass is matted with blood,
and I'm still in love with you.

HOWL

"Poetry can not be translatted into prose, that is why it is poetry."

I'll cover your eyes, that way you have an excuse not to read my blog.

I'll drag you into the backyard, use a brick to knock out your teeth; shove the corner of it in your eye. I'll use the brick to grind up your lousy teeth and pour the lousy powder in your ears, I'll keep it from spilling out by putting duct tape over your ears. That way you can't hear me reading my poems over and over again; yelling "fuck off ya dead star" to you, and to god.

You'll slowly be bleeding to death, completely and entirely unable to move, not only because I used duct tape to bind your hands and feet, but mostly due to the fact that I filled a canvas bag full of bricks and used it to break your legs and arms. When I swung it against your chest and stomach, it broke your ribs, cracked your breast plate and collapsed one of your lungs.

While your off ruining the grass with your filthy blood, I'll be hard at work diging a hole for you.

I'll drop you in the hole, 5 feet 3 inches deep. I'll throw 2 feet of dirt, a foot of gravel, a layer of bricks, and two more feet of dirt. I'll throw another layer of bricks on top of that, install a nice little fire place and invite a few friends over to roast marshmallows and talk about music and poetry and books and things that really matter, unlike you.

Lover take me to Alaska

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Your chest is a national forest.
You only speak music,
and when you walk, even Flash Gordon falls to his knees.

god take me to california

J'ai écrit un poème où j'ai tué la beauté aux cheveux blonds, son corps a pris sanglante au sommet d'une montagne et lui a donné à Dieu, elle était ma Sacrafice. J'ai donné la beauté aux cheveux blonds à Dieu, en échange de lui pour me conduire à la Californie et me donner une chance avec le renard.

class of 2013, this is your ten year reunion

My life:


Hello, My name is Gene Wilder, I'm 27 years old, six months after graduating high school I met my wife, a scottish girl--currently residing in California--named Mila, she was on vacation in utah, we spent a week together before she had to return to California, but we kept a relationship.
I was involved in the Salt Lake and Provo poetry scenes, both are very small, but I got attention from a small press based out of Austin, Texas named Write Bloody Book. They published my first poetry collection, titled "Pinetree Hearts" and sent me on tour for 8 months.

Mila was a senoir when we met. When she graduated, she moved up to utah to attend the U of U. I was on tour this whole time.

While on tour I got a phone call from a girl I used to work with, her dance company--based out of Salt Lake City--wanted to choreograph a few of my poems, I agreed and we had a lovely 45 minute show featuring my poetry. We got national attention for it, and soem producer in New york wanted it, so we picked up and headed for New York, Mila came with me. We re-cast the dancers, and I rewrote the entire show. On opening night it was one hour and fifteen minutes, dancing to music (written by me) and poetry, the story was in a "dead mans bones-esque way" a tale of a broken hearted zombie trying to find his place in this world, and trying to find a woman who will love him. We recieved international praise, and thus, we went on a short tour--3 months--through the U.S. and Europe, Mila stayed.

Upon arriving back home in Utah I took it upon myself to record a few poems with a bit of music, I gave a phone call to Joshua James, owner of Willamette Mountain Farm and studio, and set up a week and a half to do the recordings, I originally planned on doing 9 poems with music in the back, but what came out what 8 poems, and 5 songs. Joshua was going to be leaving on tour for his fourth album and invited me to open up for him on tour, we toured the U.S. for 8 months, and then off to europe for 3 months.

During this tour I revised a few novels I had written, when I got home, I got a literary agent and found two different publishers to release two different books, one called "The sundance kid" the other called "Mila"
The releases were 9 months apart and each publisher threw me on tour for 6 months.

The tour with Joshua James was incredible, each show I read poems, and sang songs, Joshua said that my music was "in demand" and when I got back from my book tours I recorded another music album, this one was self titled, it had 10 songs and 6 poems. I also put together my second collection of poetry once again with Write Bloody Book, this one was called "stills held in the beaks of magpies", but before I released either and left on tour, I married Mila. We found a small appartment In pleasant grove and moved in, we only spent four months as a married couple before I left on tour once again, but this time I toured the U.S. for nearly nine months, taking only a two week break to see my lover, and my family for christmas, and then toured europe for 5 months, at the end of that tour, Mila and I spent two weeks roaming around Paris.

I finally settled down, Mila and I bought a small farm in American Fork, we live right on the border of A.F. and P.G. I took a break from touring, but I released my third novel called "The goats are dead".

Mila and I are happy. We have three dogs, two cats, 5 goats, 23 chickens, and two horses, two sheep, and three bee boxes. All of our soap comes from the goats milk, as well as our cheese, and drinking milk, our honey is obviously from our bees, and we even have multiple candles from the wax, all of our produce comes from the wonderful garden out back. Mila works at the local high school in the special ed department. I have a teaching certificate in case we ever need more then writing and the Special Ed department.
I have a fourth novel scheduled to be released next year, and My next poetry collection and album will be released in eight months, I have a 14 month tour planned.


What I say when people ask me what i'm doing:

"oh, my wife and I live on a farm in A.F., I'm a writer, shes a teacher. good seeing ya."

Smoke from the garden. This is a life full of death.

 

Ástæðan fyrir líf var garður, beets og gulrætur og tómata. Spring svartur straumum og jarðarber snemmsumars. Dirt undir neglur eftir illgresi. lyktin af reyk í loftinu eins og hundinn minn, fallegur hundurinn minn skoðar völundarhús Mikið af snemma mûriers.Deuil vilja vekja upp heila minn og corps.Randonnée gegnum fallega Wasatch Mountains, aftur til pakki ferðast einn á brautinni og Great Western.betteraves Frest roasting kartöflum úr garðinum, borið fram með hlið spínat og kál salat með tómötum jardin.tout var falleg, hélt hann mér vakandi alla deuils.courir í pósthólfinu mínu í the síðdegi í leit að nýjum ljóð lettre.écrire, skrifa ljóð, skrifa ljóð um stelpur sem ég aldrei viljað skrifa ljóð . skrifa ljóð um kærleika, og the endir af the veröld, hjónaband, og þunglyndi, og ís, og Mílu, Jeri, og Lauren, og Alaska, og hjarta Pinetree.Le garður og bannana brauð cuisson.Le garði. Garðurinn. The garden.The Garðurinn er plein.les tómatar eru mikið á m vignes.Je 'ekki viss um hvað ég ætla að gera þegar það allt frýs, þegar snjór fellur og lokar óhreinindi, þegar grænmeti voru fjarlægðar og settar niðursoðinn þegar bréfin hætta að koma og þegar fætur mínir eru alltaf kalt þegar ég er að ganga 5 lög plús teppi og ég er alltaf kalt. Þegar ég tek hundinn minn til baka, og í stað þess að forskriftir í gegnum raðir af beets og gulrætur, sem fer á sviði jarðarberjum og gras til að pissa, pissað á mig hún ofan á snjó nær frosinn jörð jardin.Mon bestu vinkonu í borginni sedrustré, og ást mín er í Kaliforníu, reika tala með þessum svakalega skoska hreim sem hennar, og Mila er dauður í nokkurn tíma, og Jeri er slökkt í borg ljós, ekki einu sinni að hugsa um mig, enn furða hvers vegna það var að ég fann þessa leið, hvers vegna það var að hún var, og ef ég væri hreinskilinn þegar ég sagði að það var skáldskapur, sem ég stal bara nafnið og a hluti af the visage.ma ástæðu til að lifa verður að frysta, og nú að ég hef að gera er að halda hjarta mínu gegn M gel.Je 'Því miður er þetta staða lítið frábrugðin öðrum mínum. 





You're screaming, and hitting me.

Everyone was screaming.
Especially you.
I was asleep and I wake up to screaming,
and I look over and it's you,

and then

we are

 both

under

the water,

a trail

of blood

following

your hair,

and your skin

 is pail,

and you're pounding

against

the

 ice

 and trying

 to scream

but the water

is muffling

everything,

and I can't help but say "You were unconcious."

and then you stop screaming, and stop pounding and turn over to look at me, and then our eyes connect 

and you say "If I fall through, will you save me?"

and

thousands

of screams

hit me,

and I'm not sure if I ever really woke up.

You were always on my mind

 



Cafe's in paris are over-rated.

Fuck The Louvre.

Fuck the eiffel tower,
it's just a bunch of goddamn metal, 1,665 steps, you aren't even aloud to take them all the way up.

Did you know that the eiffel tower was built for the world fair in france in 1889, The United states got pretty pissed about it and held an even bigger world fair in chicago in 1893, they knew they needed something to compare to the eiffel tower, so they built the first Ferris Wheel, I learned that from a travel brochure.

Did you know that at the world fair in chicago in 1893 there was a man who went under the ailias of H.H. Holmes, he built a hotel, and killed his guests, it's believed that he killed up to 200 people. His real name was Herman Webster Mudgett, I read a book about him, it's called The Devil In The White City, it's by Erik Larson.



I sat in my hotel room all day yesterday smoking through the carton of Gauloises that I picked up at the airports "essentials" store. They're strong. Smoking them  was thought of as patriotic during WWI.

I drank the coffee that my hotel room provided me. It tastes worse then Folgers. It was raining when I got off the plane, I think it's raining even harder now. All I brought was a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, a sweatshirt and about $50 USD, I'm only here for one more day, I don't even know why the hell I came here. I had a few days off of work, and I couldn't stop thinking about Mila, so I just left, took off to paris, thought that I might forget her.

I've been in my hotel room the whole time, Scribbling lines in my journal, drawing pictures and writing over and over again:

 

It's not your fault. Float on. It's not your fault. Float on. It's not your fucking fault. Float On.

I should have jumped in, but instead I took a plane to paris, blew over $2,000 on the trip, and I'm stuck in a room with a picture of a brunette on the wall, drinking a cup of coffee, smoking a cigarette, it's black and white, but I think her nails are probably painted red. She looks nothing like you, but I can't help but see you, I can't stop thinking about you.

I'm thinking about you like ice thinks about cracking.

I'm thinking about you like cigarettes think about lighters.

I'm thinking about you like I'm thinking about jumping out of the sixth floor of my hotel.

I'm thinking about you like I'm thinking about my plane crashing on the way home,

Like love thinks about Paris,

I'm thinking about you like bare hands think about the snow,

like bare feet think about hot pavement.

I'm thinking about you like smoke thinks about lungs.

I'm thinking about you like guns think about mouths, like bullets think about pushing through your brain.

I'm thinking about you like fish think about a broken hook.

I'm thinking about you the night you wore fishnets with those gray shorts, and neither of us could stop laughing because I had taken off all your clothes but the fishnets and you called me a "perverted freak" and I called you a "dirty whore" and we couldn't stop laughing and it killed the mood and we didn't have sex that night, and neither of us really cared.

I'm thinking about you like the first time I saw you naked, like the first time you climbed into bed with me, like the first night we didn't have sex,
i'm thinking about you like we never had sex

I'm thinking about you like I'm thinking about leaving my hotel room, and getting really fucking drunk, hopefully passout--maybe hit my head on the way down--and when I wake up (possibly after my flight has already left) I won't remember your face.

Mila.

Navy

I'm afraid of the dark, literally. I'm not afraid of what hides in the dark. I'm not afraid of my immagination doing my eyes job. I'm afraid of the dark. I'm afraid it'll consume me, swallow me. I'm afraid that once I enter, I'll never be able to get out.

I'm afraid of closed doors. If I open it, will there be anything behind it, or will it just be some  dark abyss. A place completely void of light. Walls with nothing on them. No warmth, no air flow.

I find myself opening doors, checking behind them, just to make sure that there is something, anything: a waterheater, a toyroom, a bathroom, a bedroom, a washing machine, anything, just some type of comfort.

I'm afraid of water.

I'm afraid of ice.

I'm afraid of falling through, and being trapped under it.
That's what happened to Mila.

We were at White Lake, just hiking around it in the winter. It's a pretty place, cold, but pretty. Not too many people go up there in the winter.

Mila thought it would be fun to go out onto the lake.
I was very hesitant. She kept calling for me to come out. I was scared. The ice should have been thick enough, it was february in the high mountains of Washington, we were on our way to Utah, thought we might visit our families for Christmas--we decided to take the long way, down the usual route, from anchorage to fairbanks, down to Calgary, and into the U.S. through Montana, but then we cut across over Idaho, and Into Washington,  we were going to drive the coast till we hit Empiral Beach and then cut up to Corona and drop by my uncles house, then straight up through Vegas, St. George, and to Highland, Utah--But then Mila broke through the ice of White Lake.

There wasn't a crack, there wasn't any warning,
she turned around and laughed "If I fall through, will you save me?"
then she took a step back,
and was gone,
hit her head on the way d
                          o
                            w
                               n
I ran out,
shoved
my arm
into the water,
I couldn't find her.
I was too afraid to
jump in.

I was a coward,
a god damn coward.

Mila probably floated under the ice, and just stayed there, face pressed against the ice, till her lungs filled up with water and sank. I could have probably saved her. But I didn't. Instead I just sat there crying, hoping that I too would fall into the ice.

A couple of ice fishermen had seen what had happened. They radioed for a ranger.

I'll be waiting in northern California for you

This is the last place I saw Mila, but I'm just not ready to talk about it yet.

I bumped into this painting by Rapael Lacoste, I want to scream "Get off the fucking ice." to those two people, but it's just a painting.

We had our hearts in our mouths the whole time.

Mila and I had gone for a hike earlier that day, we were just relaxing by the side of Green Mountain Glory Lake, we were surrounded by aspens and pines that covered the hills rolling around for miles, Green Glory Mountain was to the west of us, and we could see the clouds rising from the peak. I had brought us a bit of a picnic--PB&J's, obviously--we talked about our latest reads, mine was "Into the Wild" by Jon Krakauer, which I was extremely disappointed with. Her's was "The Moon is Down" by John Stienbeck, which she was loving--I had given her the reference to read it.

There were a few moose that were off grazing on the western side of the lake, a momma and her calf. We got into talking how amazing it is that some animals, like bears and moose and penguins, can take such incredible care of their childeren, never leave them. While other animals just lay their eggs and run. She asked me about my mother.

                                        "Well, she's pretty. And, she's probably the sweetest lady you've ever met.
                                 She gets a little stressed out at times. She likes to run."

Mila asked me if I had one word to describe her with, what would it be.
                                          "Love. You?"
she thought about it for a second and then said
                                          "Absent."
                                          "Sorry."
                                          "It's cool. I never really knew her. My dad took care of me. I guess she just left a few months after I was born, We have no idea where she is. I guess it's a little weird."

I couldn't help it, I tried to hold back, but the words were persistent
                                          "I love you mila."
                                          "You're sweet Gene."
I asked her if she believed me, she said this:
                                                                         "It doesn't matter Gene. I've realized something, It doesn't matter if Love exists or not.
                              Love is this giant never ending skyscraper that nobody can ever tear down, it just goes up and up and up and up for miles and miles. You keep climbing it. And if you are on the highest floor you've ever been to, even if it's only the third floor, you can be in love. You have no idea what is above you, only what is behind you, and each floor is better then the last."

I wasn't following her, she tried to explain:
                                                      "It's all a matter of opinion. I can be in love on the 55th floor while someone else is in love on the tenth floor."

"And?" In all honesty, I had no idea where she was going with any of it, I wish she would just say something about love being a lake or a mountain or a dead body or something.

"So what I'm saying is this: it really doesn't matter If i'm 'really' in love with you, because what we have is enough, and what we have makes me happy. And I'm okay with that. And I'm okay with not knowing if I really love you."

She took a bite of her sandwhich and a bit of the jelly got on her face. I wiped it off and kissed her, and I couldn't help but thinking Sticky love, sticky lover. My Love, My lover.

You're a Prince? I'm a fox.

 

I understand this post is long.

"You're a human being, and you also lie." stated the fox
"I do NOT LIE." the Little Prince corrected.
"Then you're inhuman." said the fox.
-The Little Prince

So I took a walk to the slaughter house. I let them do what they wanted, she cut slits in my forearms, legs, and stomach, she hollowed me out, then filled me with a crude paste of ground cow, pig, and my own intestines. She left my Head empty, except for an empty moleskin notebook. She gave me back my heart, I shoved it down my throat, left it in my chest.

Over the last year or so, I've given humanity a lot of thought. I've given humanity a lot of shit. I've been worried about my own humanity ever since I went to the slaughterhouse, some people might argue that I'm not a human simply because I don't have a brain, or eyes, or a stomach, or any of the necessary internal oregans--heart aside--to sustain life. But, i disagree.

It was a woman who hollowed me out, she never told me her name, but she looked an awful lot like a susan. After she put the notebook in my head, she took me to her own house, she watched after me and taught me for several months. A few things have remained. And what I'm about to tell you, is something few people have heard, I could go into the different kinds of sex, or give you a murder mystery, or something interesting, and pretend like I hid some kind moral, but I won't.

She told me that there are three things that prove your humanity, the first: Love, she told me that Love was everything--and not in a "flower power" way--it was all about the Love that you give, whether that Love is for your wife, or ex-wife, your pets or animals, your kids, your parents, your brothers and sisters, nature, your garden, anything, if you have that love it doesn't matter if you're poor or rich or sick or anything, Love makes life worth it.

Creation,  Creating emotions, creating art; a painting, a poem, a dance, a short story, a novell, a sculpture, a drawing. Creating a child--yeah sex. Creating friendships. Creating connections, and this one is important.

Creating connections with the people around you, with the earth and the mountains, and nature, with your wife, your children, your parents, your animals, your music, your writing, other peoples music and writing, your art, other peoples art. She told me that to be able to make connections with people you've never met through a medium of art, writing, or dance, was the greatest thing a human could do, and it was also something that only a human could do; To be able to sing a song, and have someone feel exactly what you were feeling.

I fell in love with her, or so I thought, I'm not sure why. Maybe because she was the first real human I've ever met. Or maybe it's because she was one of the very few GOOD women. I'm not sure, in all honesty she wasn't all that pretty, she was a little shorter then average and probably a pretty average weight for her height, small breasts--all her features were small--firey red hair that had never seen the slightest bit of taming, she had a very pretty voice though.

I told her I loved her, she sent me on my way. Broke my heart.

I had never seen the city I was in, it had fairly tall buildings--it would be easy to kill yourself--it was surrounded by mountains, it was next to the sea, and it was goddamn freezing.

I walked into a place called Anchor Cafe, and ordered a cup of hot chocolate, a woman brought me my drink. Her name was Mila. She was pretty, average height, almost too skinny, small breasts, small hands, and small facial features, but everything was fairly proportional. she had long brown hair, naturally curly, or maybe wavy. She gave me my hot chocolate and asked what happened to my arms, her voice was very cute, she spoke english with a hint of a scottish accent. I told her what happened, I'm not all that great at lying. She laughed, she had a cute laugh, she asked me where my coat was, I told her I didn't have one, she asked where I lived, I told her nowhere. She invited me to sleep at her house for the night.

I slept on a couch.

In the mourning she made me breakfast, "Thank you so much for letting me sleep here" she told me it was no big deal and that I was welcome to stay till I found somewhere else to live "thank you, I-I got you something, It's a secret, so I wrote it down." she took the piece of paper and unfolded it "it's the greatest lesson I've ever learned, Susan, you remember me telling you about her?"

"Of course."

"well this is the greatest lesson she taught me about humanity, she told me that if anybody ever told me I wasn't a human because I don't have a brain or a stomach or bones, to always remember this."

 

"It's only with the heart that one can see clearly," Mila was reading it slowly "what is essential is invisible to the eye." Mila looked up at me.

"It's actually from a movie called The Little Prince. But Susan helped me understand it."

"Gene, please stay."

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