Finally, Someone Gets It (part three)

If you know me at all,
you know I've had more than my fair share
of run-ins with the police; some deserved,
some prevoked, and some just out-right brutal
(like this one):


Now, now there are all of these internets
outlets that are still smelling like freshly opened packages---
Remember how we lived before the internet?
---this brand new, hand-made way of documenting, of reporting. . .


I wish I had the videos from the squad cars that got me,
from the jail cells that held me,
the 911 tape recordings that I dialed-in
personally, the swabs from inside my mouth,
the mug shots of me with a shattered, fractured face;
the dot-matrix receipts of my breath results,
and the gelatin off of the x-rays of my broken bones,
just so you could see, so you could see.

See my whole hand print reflected in the glass,
and digitized right here too. There's a record of it.
My greasy palm stains that I left
etching into the tarnished brass.

(Perhaps I'll make that a new project for myself:
jumping through the buraucratic hoops to collect those long lost
public records and present them sometime down the road, calling it

Body Art All Over

A Retrospective of All the Reasons Joseph Beuys was Wrong,
or Another Attempt at Reconciling Art Practice and Real Life.)
by Justin Aubrey Kidd.

You would be amused.
(Quite possibly appalled.)

*_*

We can all still pretend, right?
There is no need for a gallery exhibit,
or any sort of presentation, outside of this one here.

The artefacts, if you know me at all, are now a part of you,
this world of group-sourcing, wiki wiki savvy---
Go catch the cobra in its hood.

Pardon me, as I step aside.
I'm not so sure I trust the cobra.
Wary of another beating, I remember,
Life is nasty brutish and short.

What?

Who believes in that?

Life is beautiful.

Anyone who tells you otherwise, ought not be someone in your life.

Be occupied with things you love, not by the things you fear.

*_*

If you're into that sort of funny kind of research,
If you enjoy dealing with the government on an individual level, or
if you have a monthly subscription to one of those
background checker Magnum PI computer forensics programs,
do look me up.


A Scavenger Hunt!

A Race to See:
1) Who gets my X-rays first? (two sets)
2) Who can find my mug shots? (Collect all SIX!)
3) Who finds my credit report to see my extensive delenquency.
(bonus if you find out who is the nice person who took out a 30K loan
in my name and is actually honest enough to pay it back.)
4) Who will find the 911 phone call recordings? (seven episodes)
5) Who can find the digital scan of both my palms?

Find All Five and Win!

*_*

For now, tangentially, my only proof is this:

http://cosmos.bcst.yahoo.com/up/player/popup/?rn=4226712&cl=9020749&src=news

(If I could embed this video, I would.)
[EDIT: I learned a new trick while I was rewriting this.]

Now, why would a document (on the internet) become officially lost?

*_*

With that, I will leave you with this, my favorite words.

*_*

XXXIII

poor flowers in their flower beds
of manicured, tended gardens.
They look so scared, so afraid of the police...
manipulated,

but they're so alive that they still bloom
in the same way as before, as with the ancient colors,
the same color they all came with into this, their wild state.
Born,

as when the first gaze of the first man
who got startled looking and reaching out
to touch them lightly so that he might also see
with his small fingers.

---Alberto Caeiro. (metanym of Fernando Pessoa.)

*_*

THERE WILL BE BARF

We finally watched the newest Coen brothers' film,

NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN

(dare I say it?)

I think
THERE WILL BE BLOOD
was better. . .

They came out about the same time,
easily confused, so I am told ---
The Coen brothers are now pandering. . .

There's lots of shots for the Marfa crowd.
A lot like Fargo, but in West Texas and Santa Fe. . .

*_*

They re-icluded the barf scene, in full graphic detail.

*_*

"Barton Fink" is still the best- even better than "Fargo"
Even though my non-nuclear - my unclear uncle,
my step father's cousin is "Smokey" (Jimmie Dale Gilmore) in
"The Big Lewbowski" - - - "Barton Fink" is still the best.

*_*

THERE WILL BE BLOOD

is a really good movie,
despite its so slow plot
and its despicable characters.

It is a lesson, O Brother, for the Coen Brothers---
the barfing jokes were better
when the pregnant lady pretends. . .

"Uh, oh no."

NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN

is not their best.

F A L S E A L A R M.

ANYONE'S GUESS (?)

I went to this place down the street called Performance Motor Sports
or some shit, and I don't think I'll ever go back there again.
Some of these people. . . Hmmph.

I walked out today.

It's hard to say what I really want to say about them, except "Hmmph."
Some things go without saying;
Some things are easier said than done; and
Somethings should never be said at all.

With that being said---

I know it's hard to see in these photos, but
that big puddle of oil might yield some small clues
in this situation about what just happened:



I got stooped.
We say that here sometimes, we get stoop-ed together, the old way,
parking our asses on that step that's just outside of this picture, sitting on the porch,
looking at the trees and the few strangers passing by, biding our time by not moving.
(How do you put one of those accent grave stresses over the e?)
Stooped. We get stupid there, too sometimes. You know.
Jokes. The subtle ones don't work on the internet.
Even the internet has its limits. . .

We live on a hill, so everything is a little bit dizzying, especially after
being a flatlander for so long. Everything is still built the same way---
all right angles--- but it looks a little like Prague, a little like the White City,
a little like the Magic Kingdom, and every once in a while, I remember, you remember:
The world is round. My eyeballs are round. I am spinning through space, floating, or
better hurtling, millions of miles per hour. At incomprehensible speeds in directions
I am unaware of most of the time.
This is not a linear situation.

Why can't I see it?
When will I see it?
When will I be big enough?
Why can't I see it now?

Why did it suddenly re-appear out of nowhere?
I just looked there and there was nothing.
Now it is here. I am crazy. Am I crazy?

Where did it go?


So it started up again, shooting out oil.

["What do they do with all of that oil that comes shooting out?" She asked.
"It goes back to Heaven" I said, "It's a dinosaur's spirit."
We were watching a spindle-top movie. "They just leave it there, soaking in.
It got wasted. Sometimes they bury it. Sometimes they try to clean it up.
Usually, they burn it---"

And then the spindle top caught on fire,
In this slow moving movie called "There Will Be Blood."
We got it from the library, so be prepared, It reads like a book,
like a book on film, or a tin-type turned movie.]


And then that dinosaur spirit caught on fire, making my spaceship move.
That puddle of oil came shooting out of the air filter.
My hair dryer on wheels scoots again.
It goes 300 miles on six dollars worth of gas.
I am jumping up and down. I need to pee.
I love it.

What if we burn nitrogen instead of burning dinosaur spirits?

Just a thought.
We could pee in them, our spaceships.

* _ *

It happened to me once before, in a 1969 Volkswagon Beetle.
Air cooled engines use oil as the air filter, and I guess,
when I turned it over on its side, some of that oil spilled out (?)
out of it's resevoir? I'm still learning the mechanics of this thing, but
the Volkswagon was pretty easy to figure out when we took it apart
in the Badlands. . . The National Park in South Dakota . . .
That's another story for another time.

This scooter is another animal, completely different.

I'm not sure what I did exactly.
I took everything apart.
I cussed and cried and kicked it a few times,
wiped off some dirt, put in a new spark plug,
straightened a brass pin in a carbeurator jet,
kicked it again, and now it works.

Three times in a row, after all that oil spewed out of the air filter.
I haven't checked it in about an hour or so,
but I'm about to check it again when I take it to the store.

Progress reports forthcoming. . .

LINE OF FIRE

This is the first time I've ever attempted anything like this, and with my
limited knowledge of mechanics and engines, I've gone through a lot of unnecessary
steps. I'm still not sure why it won't start, but I'm starting to understand this little machine
of mine a little bit more--- enough to know that I don't think I can fix it by myself.

This picture looks terrible on this page, but if you click it, there's a better view.




The starter relay goes cklklccllkccclclck sometimes and sometimes it does nothing when I
try the electric start. Once in a while, it actually turns the starter but very weakly.

The starter is attached to that little gear on top. When it works properly, that little gear pops out and turns the bigger gear. The bigger gear is also what turns (via a series of other springs and gears) with the kickstart. Now that the kickstart has been removed, I'm not sure I can put the half-moon and spring back on the right way.

The good news is the Moto-sports shop down the road opens again on Monday. They've been closed all week for summer vacation.

GHOSTING

Hello again.

I am ghosting.
Everything is cattywompus and off-kilter.
See for yourself:


My broom is broken. . .

Yes, I know, it is a China bike---
Mei-tian or Jia-Ling, depending
on how or who with you surf. . .

. . .

- - -but Honda parts should fit. . .
am I wrong? I've emptied the gas,
changed the plug, checked the battery,
but still. . . Marooned - - -

After this, remind me. . .
never buy anything maroon again.
I'm working my way up slowly to blue- - -




I'm thinking of chunking the whole thing
and starting fresh, but it brought me 300 miles here,
worked three times since then, and stopped. . .

And when it quit working,
I rode it down to the end of the block
and back when Cosmo was bawling
like I've never seen before, really howling.

"What happened?" I said.
No response.
"What happened?" I repeat.
Nothing.
"What happened?"- - -

"He really wants to ride it," his mom said.
"Well, let me take him---"
"NO!"

"C'mon, it's only a hair dryer on wheels. I'll be caref---"
"NO. He could be scared and let go. There's no way to strap him in... "

"Oh. . . okay- - -
. . . but we could put his bike seat on the back.
Look here, there's bolt holes. . ."

- - -

(there's that sideways look from mom)

"I see, no it is. Okay, then, but when you're older. . ."
( I try to console him to little effect )

( ( All this is instantaneous ) )

"That's what I told him," his mom said, "Maybe when you're bigger."

"But I am big now," she said, "he said. But, he is not big enough."

"Oh, no." I said under my breath. "I did it again."

("But when will he be big enough?" I wonder. "But, when?")

And that was the end of it.

So, I went to the store after that.
I came home and I heard the thunder.
(It storms nearly every day here, in Southern Indiana.)

I covered it with a tarp.
It rained.
The next day it wouldn't start.

I fiddled with it. It coughed and spurtered once
(on the electric start) for 60 seconds or so,
I put all the plastics back on.

and now nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.

The electric starter turns then clicks clk clclikl ckclkclckclkclckl clc cl clclk.
Kick start does nothing.

Four Days Later. . .
Nothing.

My broom is broken.
See for yourself:


H E L P.
Anyone?

yours truly,
ox



j u s t i n a k i d d @ g m a i l . c o m


H-E-L-P.
A Plastic world with a plastic past and plastic dreams- - -




our dreams are real.