Piece written tonight, and read at Beat Night (Knife)

(There have been minor revisions, as I hadn't edited at all before performing it; I cleaned up word choice in some spots, and smoothed out some phrasing, implementing the edits I envisioned as I read it.)

Having recently been saddled with a bully I've been thinking about other experiences I've had with them, thus this piece:

Knife

I’d been a target

            From my first day in York, 1^st grade;

                        Too Friendly

                                    Too Talkative

                                                Too Curly

            Too scared to fight back;

And that was just at school.

Up the street was an older boy, with roaming hands,

secrets, and a man’s stench; perhaps he somehow marked me as prey.

I was of the scapegoat caste, most others taking out

their horrors on us (I have to think someone got something from it all).

In 8^th grade something changed, felt more urgent

                                    & I went to Star Center Flea Market

                                                & bought a boot knife

6 inches of good steel for a bad feeling,

            A remnant of a foreign Army

                        to guard me during the war of adolescence;

I pulled it twice:

            The 1^st when 2 larger

                                    but younger boys

                                                demanded my watch

                                                on a path with no one watching;

                                    They fled, and for once, I didn’t;

The 2^nd…

            It was 9^th grade. To compensate for freshman terror

                        I was loud,

                                    And obnoxious;

Never having met anyone truly dangerous

            I ignored the warnings from the 3 senior rednecks

                        That they were no one to play with

And I tried to play with them,

A kitten biting tigers’ tails;

They knew how to avoid scrutiny

            And punished

                        30 seconds at a time

                                    Every time

We passed in halls, for weeks

            even after I surrendered;

The big one was the worst, being 300lbs and stronger than me by at least 5 times;

                        The other 2 threatened; the big one did;

Optimistically I’d started the year without my knife

            Ignoring my feeling

                        but by November I’d cut pockets

                                    in jackets

                                                for concealment

                                                            & Quick draw;

One day, crossing the courtyard between German

            & study hall,

                        Grey skies turning bitter,

                                    The wind gaining an edge,

The big one came from opposite

                        Grabbed me

                                    by the back of my neck

                                                folded me in half

                                    forward

                                                & unbalanced

                        As my own weight

                                    choked me

                        on his thick arm;

Before my breathway was narrowed entirely

            I

                        Smelled

                                                Him,

His man’s stench that reminded me

                        of roaming hands

                        and secrets;

There was panic, & resignation to instinct

            & a conscious choice

                        that stopping this

                                    was worth

                                                anything that happened

& I pulled my knife;

My head jammed into his fat belly

            (his shirt was too short to cover)

Our jackets made a tent

                                    concealing my hands

                                    from all angles,

                                    including his

And in the strange serenity of animal survival

            I chose me

            Over him

            And put the tip of my knife on his bare skin, and began to push;

That second

            Teachers

                        burst through two doors

Yelling for us to stop it;

Sudden breath filled my lungs

& as I stood

            I hid my knife in its place;

The big redneck stood me up straight, and made a show of putting his arm around me;

“We’re just playin’” he said,

            and the teachers left,

                        & we went our ways.

I was exhausted

            & conflicted:

Relieved I’d not been caught with a knife

            ready to enter another

But upset that I’d not even drawn blood;

            It felt an incomplete ritual

                        that the primal magic I’d tried to work

            Would surely fail now;

The next day I was too spent to care

            when the big one approached

            our table in studyhall,

                        for once

                                    in plain view of teachers;

I may have reached for my knife

by was disarmed when he asked

“Can I sit down?”

Chris Walters

'13

Reworked Tune

There's more to be done, but it's getting there.

NotWhatYouWantToGive

Wet Brain Todd Versus The Glaswegian

Wet Brain Todd Versus The Glaswegian

10-3-12

There were four passengers on the shuttle: Felix, (a tall, lean Vietnam Veteran with a hat stating so), Wet Brain Todd, a small young Eastern European woman, and myself. As we waited for Time To Go the driver and I were talking about China’s new aircraft carrier. This went on to the dispute between China and Japan over a set of islands. Felix, whom I know to have opinions worth hearing, entered the conversation. He began to make a point, and I was happy for his input.

However, Wet Brain Todd, who had appeared to be unconscious, began mumbling. As the mumbling didn’t seem to be words, and Todd’s eyes were closed, Felix assumed it was drunk sleep babble, and attempted to wait it out. When the mumbling lulled we all assumed Todd was done, and out. Felix resumed speaking,

And so did Todd. He apparently thought the subject at hand was not worth a discussion, because “IbeenAfghasstanIkillfifteenmuhfuhkin’people. Sowhat? Maaaaaaaaan.” All this with his eyes closed.

To be clear Todd was not in the current conflict in Afghanistan. He’s 50, going on 51. He claims to have been in Afghanistan when he was 17. He’s claiming to have been in Afghanistan in 1978. When we had NO ONE in Afghanistan.

He also claims to have had a Fight Club behind Gilley’s, where he’s made $500 a night fighting people.

Todd says many things.

Felix attempted to resume talking, Todd would not let him. He kept slurring some crap about “Iknow’bouthisshit”.

The tension finally peaked when he said “Nonono. Iwasinthemilitary. Iknow.”

At which point Felix leveled a look so incendiary that I thought Todd’s breath and hair would catch fire. He then announced that he was going to be quiet, as he didn’t want to be the source of disharmony. There was some minor back and forth between the two men, but an unhappy silence descended over all of us.

There was a feeling that things could turn really ugly with one wrong word. Todd had even offered to step outside with Felix, though the latter was too civilized to indulge. It’s an awful form of tension, and we smothered under it.

About 90 seconds later I spied a cyclist approaching through the mist.

“Incoming Bike”, I announced. The driver moved to help the rider rack their bike. Unfortunately Todd, now awake, noticed my turn of phrase.

“Incom’nbike? THATsoundsmilitary, maaaaaaaaan!”

‘Fuck’, thought I. ‘This will be the worst ride ever.’

Then driver and rider entered the shuttle. The new arrival, a man from Glasgow named Chris, said in his burr “Hoo’s eerrrywahn doon tanay’?”

Most mumbled ‘alright’.

Todd said “Hey, ‘scuseme. Wha’youjus’say?”

“Doon’ werrry, suhn. Whan ye bin in the coontrry a coopla yeuhrrrs yull beguhn to pick oop tha acsuhnt. Yull underrrstahn’ tha prrroper Anglish we speak ‘roond heerrre.”

“Wha?”

“A coopla yeuhrrrs. Yull be floont.”

I was snickering at the lovely break in tension, but this wasn’t the end of it. Todd had more questions.

“A’youGerman?”

That brought the laughter. Felix followed up with, if I recall correctly, “Can’t you hear he’s Russian?”

More laughter.

“Nuh. Se’iously. Whe’yafrom?”

“Istanbul.”

More laughter.

“Huh?”

“He’s a big Turk, Todd.”

“Really?”

More laughter.

Meanwhile we’d set out for Kittery. During the ride every time Todd said anything it was instantly upended by Chris, and spiked by Felix. He finally just sat and looked mystified at everything that Chris said.

Eventually even the young woman, who had been trying to be quiet, and avoid notice while Todd was ramping up, was laughing freely.

As we neared the end of the ride Chris said “Ut’s ulwehs an advainture ahn the shuttle. Yuh ne’errr know hoo yerrr gwin to meet. Boonch a crazay Uhmerrrricans. And a Scotsman!”

“I thought you said you were French!” said Felix, as Todd said something like “Wait, wha’?”

Todd stayed on, the rest left, and we all had a laugh. Todd fell asleep in his seat.

As he was leaving Chris pulled up next to Todd’s window and pounded under it to wake Todd up. He then shined his bike light into Todd’s face.

“Wehk oop! Ye’ve to goo hoom! Arraight?! G’Naight!” And he rode off.

As we stood outside reviewing the ride, from in the shuttle the driver and I heard “Thefuckdude! Thefuckin’sjgagndanognroagaoighhjsdhgk!” 90 seconds later Todd figured out how to undo his seatbelt to come out a yell at ME for waking him up.

The driver corrected him and pointed at Chris’ back as the man pedaled off into the night.

Swaying in place and confusion, Todd said “Awmaaaaaan…”

And I left, thinking at some point I need to thank that Glaswegian for rescuing that whole situation from awful, and turning it into one of the best gut laughs I’ve had in while.

Reminded by Portugal 3 Denmark 2, Group Stage, Euro 2012

You get used to things

And

In so doing

Assume

Some things

Must be

And can’t be changed, that to even try would guarantee failure & looking foolish for it.

June 2002

I’d become used to

Toilets full of blood I couldn’t explain

Nights bereft of memory

A life of neither hope nor direction

Mornings of “Whose blood is that?”

And

“Do I have any friends left?”

And when my drinking failed to kill my unnamed hurt

I hoped it would kill me

But it failed to do that.

I assumed that there was no other way

No possibility of my sobriety

But I had no other ideas left to try.

So I spent several insomniac nights

Channel-flipping

Chain smoking minutes

My drying blood turning liquid once more

Cop Shows

Sit Coms

Politics

Reruns

Infomercials

The 2AM Litany of Loathing

The background noise of a certainty that this was doomed to fail

I was sure to die of drink.

Cop Shows

Sit Coms

Politics

Reruns

Infomercials

Why bother drying up? Dammit it’s too late to buy whiskey…

Cop Shows

Sit Coms

Politics

Reruns

Infomercials

Soccer.

Stupid drunk: you forgot the World Cup was starting. Is this a repeat? No, it’s in Asia! It’s live at 2AM! Hope?

USA! Vs

Portugal.

We’re fucked. Portugal are tipped by some to win it all.

We’re going to lose, and I’m going to die drunk.

But USA won

3-2

I accepted the challenge,

The gauntlet thrown by our National Team doing what was assumed they couldn’t possibly have done,

And I have done for myself

What I assumed I couldn’t possibly have done,

And have done it now for 10 years.


Chris Walters, June 2012

Shuttle Trip 6-4-12

Shuttled to and from town for sugar, for Full Moon creative endeavors. Mildly eventful trip.

Thought I was getting harassed by 20 somethings fresh from D-Street. "Nice Cane. Hey you." was said to my back. It reminded me of the times way-the-frak-back when 40 somethings from Wally's/The Old Bridge would say to the back of my mohawk/spikes "Nice hair. Hey kid."

I made up my mind that, like the bikers/redecks of old, I would ignore them. But, should they push the issue, and not leave me alone, as running from the event was not a possibility, extreme measures (headbutts, biting, scrotum-hook on newly-finished cane put to any possible use) were acceptable. I figured I could take out one before the other 2 (3?) took me down. Some consolation prize for the pain and inconvenience of beating, but you take what you can get.

Nothing happened.

Got to PoPro, they came in after, and one of them had a cane. A shitty, collapsible cane. Nothing was said, which pleased me.

Turns out "Nice cane" wasn't intended as a threat; it was a compliment from a child (even if he's legally entitled to pickle himself) with the manners of a mentally impaired house-cat.

I returned to the shuttle, and mentioned to another passenger I'd seen around for years about what happened. We reflected on dumbasses mouthing off, and I mentioned how I wish the Old Bridge still existed to send such people to.

We ended talking about one of the toughest men in The Old Bridge, Mario. I'd actually been thinking about Mario lately, wondering what became of him.

I'd see him at Richardon's. He'd come in and say in his heavily accented English "Heeeey, buddy! Howyou?" "Great, Mario! What's happenin'?" "Fine, buddy! Fine!"

These things I knew about Mario: He was Cuban, didn't speak English well at all, and had arrived in the 70s, or 80s. I thought he possibly arrived in 1980 expulsion from Cuba, but didn't know for sure.

He had some of the darkest skin I'd ever seen, and, though decades older than me, the features of the Gerber Baby.

I also knew from stories in the neighborhood that Mario was a Grade A badass. This is a man who stood maybe 5'5", weighing 150lbs if that, who was known to knock down with one punch men 300+lbs. In a dive bar.

I'd heard he was a boxer in Cuba.

I learned tonight that he had been on his way to being a major champion, winning 39 fights. Then Castro.

Mario hated Castro, not just on spec, and for the ruining of his country, but personally, for ruining his career.

He'd ended up in prison for murder (circumstances I don't know), and had seen someone die there every week.

In 1980, when Castro cast out all the "undesirables", the mental patients, the prisoners, the counter-revolutionaries not worth killing, Mario was released, and put on a boat.

He happily left Cuba, and set sail. For what he thought was Miami.

But was actually Portsmouth, NH. Imagine his surprise...

But he liked it, and never left.

"Ilikehere! 'stoofuckin'cold, butIlikeit!"

After what he left, Portsmouth, even in barely-civilized 1980, must have seemed heavenly.

Mario always elevated my mood when he came in, always so cheerful, and genuinely friendly. Turns out that was in genuine appreciation of what he had. I'd been thinking about lately, and was glad to find out all this about him.

Turns out he died a few years ago. Not surprising, given his age, and the intensity of his life. Gator, the owner of Wally's and briefly The Old Bridge, paid for his funeral. There was no plot, or interment of ashes, however. Mario's ashes are in the basement of D-Street. The man who told me said he liked to believe Mario would be happy with that, which kind of made sense: he spent all his time at TOB, and seemed to like a dive.

This man, though, said he'd been looking for a way to contact Mario's family in Cuba, and see if they wanted his ashes. I thought that was pretty cool, and hope he succeeds.

Until then, Mario rests in an environment that, while not luxurious or restful by most standards, is NOT a Cuban prison, and therefore "Fine, Buddy, fine!"

Walters' Rules of Wrist 3-30-12

If you hate anyone Jesus doesn't like you. End of.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

A politician who is after a government job by saying the government is evil is as trustworthy as Fred Phelps offering blowjobs to join his church.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Saying to a trauma victim "Get Over It!" about anything is good way to, at best, lose a friend, at worst experience some trauma of your own.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Saint Pat's

Once upon a time I planned to create an occasion-specific outfit for St. Patrick's Day. It was devised in reaction to the BeingIrishMeansBingeDrinking, and other assheaded misconceptions in this country.

I was going to wear a suit of orange, with England flags scattered about.

"green represents the Gaelic tradition of Ireland and the orange represents the followers of William of Orange in Ireland, with white representing peace, or a truce, between them."

"A Protestant, William participated in several wars against the powerful Catholic king of France...Many Protestants heralded him as a champion of their faith."

You can imagine how that suit would have gone over with any true Irish, or anyone who knew their history.

One of the last St. Pats I drank I was in the Press Room at the beginning of Amateur Time. I was at the dartboard end of the bar, with what turned out to be 3 elderly Irish men, all strangers to me and each other, and all quietly drinking, with new and welcome friends. We chatted. An old Dubliner bought me a drink. Men of kindness, and character, all wearing green in understated ways that didn't demand attention, but asserted itself nonetheless.

While none of them liked the way the day was celebrated here, none had any animosity towards the young and stupid, something that puzzled and impressed me with its sharp contrast to my own feelings. We parted as friends, all to their homes about 6:00 PM.

I realized that my Orange Prick Suit would have only offended these men, that no one else in the place would have even understood. I gave up the idea. Regardless of any skepticism to religion I harbor, or how I might prefer history to have gone differently to suit my morality, in the here-and-now (or there-and-then) I had met good people, and my life was better for it.

My Irishness is as remote to me as it is to most Americans. The brief look I've had at my father's family tree revealed a number of Mc's, O's, and Mac's, though many of the Mc's and Mac's are Scottish. None of my Celtic relations are more recent arrivals than the 19th century as far as I know.

However, those three decent men at the Press Room, whose names I've forgotten, impressed on me that there are indeed some great things about Irishness, and they do indeed deserve celebration. Maybe one day this country will know what they are.

Old Piece of music redone

Conceit

It had synth guitars, and sounded like it had synth guitars. I recorded real guitar parts because, unlike at the point when I wrote the piece, I can.

New Piece of Music

This is the piece I've been working for a couple weeks, originally written last summer.

I had a number things I wanted to do with it, but my recording program decided that it was going to play funny jokes with timing. I might redo the work next week.

I forgot to do an MP3 mix, so it's kind of bright. You may have to add bass.

And it's long, and seems somehow overture-like.

It's not done, but I'm pleased so far.
Dreams_So_Self_Important 

Edit: New Version, different solo as of 2/9/12

Last Night's Musical Composition

18hours 

There's some hint of Siouxsie and the Banshees, as well as other early 80s postpunk acts.

There will probably be a week of mixing, and composition corrections, but I like it. Arpeggios are vastly underused in most music.

Tune I reworked

Away.