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    hardie karges 12:35 pm on October 6, 2008 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: life, ,   

    When the day’s all done, you’re still and always alone; 

    the only question is to what extent and by what design. Is it of your own making or a death sentence? Little by little you build your empires one brick at the time, wall by wall, room by room, just to watch it all fall down in one broad sweep of the cosmic broom. If you don’t tear it down yourself, then someone will do it for you. Love is scary, staring into the great unknown, big brown eyes connected to infinity. It’s that falling feeling that I crave, that bottomless pit in the stomach, that sudden drop on the roller-coaster ride of life, that lack of center, that makes me feel most alive. Machines and their machinations only delay the inevitable. Space is comprised of singularities, impure and infinitely dividable, recombining at random with anonymous partners. Still mechanical sex is only as good as the mechanics behind it, and nothing compares with that tractor beam of pure attraction between two would-be lovers making the leap from conditional tense to indicative. That’s the force that maintains the race, to reproduce and evolve, by bits and pieces, little ones crawling underfoot and reeking.

     
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    hardie karges 8:44 am on October 4, 2008 Permalink | Reply
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    The love between a man and woman can’t be trusted. 

    Asians have long known that. The only love that can trusted is essentially that between blood relatives, particularly between mother and child. You don’t trust your choices; you trust your fate, whether cruel or not. Sex implies possession as much as it inspires love as if the very act of penetration were as much a birthday bow as a ribbon tied, a gift-wrapped prison. Every penetration is a key inserted and turned, whether to the right or left, open or closed, is left to chance and the dance of the dice. But possession is only a contract, real or imagined. Blood is your self, interpolated and extrapolated, from the past into the future, like a poker hand laid out to show. We look at the past with the microscope of the present as if men had always thought the same way, as if they’d always loved their wives and kids or anything else long considered sacred. They didn’t; it had to be learned just like everything else. The thing a man wants most in a wife is a good girl who also gives good head, and likes it, a Brownie who knows who to use her brownies, a woman equally at home with her biscuits in the oven or her buns in bed. Many a prostitute can polish a mean knob, of course, but that doesn’t count, not in the modern day and age of democracy and free enterprise.

     
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    hardie karges 7:27 am on September 30, 2008 Permalink | Reply
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    Never give more than half of your self to someone else 

    or she just might take it all, and not even give change. Half a love is plenty, especially when you’ve got nothing. Sometimes it’s hard to ‘break up’ even when the situation seems like it has a limited future. You can’t make it better, and you can’t shut it down, so what do you do? If you’re a traveling man, and creative to boot, you make it a part-time gig, as long as the little lady’s cool with the deal and as long as you still enjoy the sex. If there’s nothing else on which to base a decision, and money is not an issue, then let it be sex. That’s only natural. Couples that ‘stick it out’ long after the physical love is gone are accomplishing less than they could otherwise. ‘Sticking it in’ is more important. The couple that lays together, stays together. The sexual act is penetration of another dimension, natural selection in process, the choice of life.

     
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    hardie karges 7:49 am on September 29, 2008 Permalink | Reply
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    Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it having the wife, the kid, the three-car garage. 

    Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it having the microwave, the DVD, the five-liter fridge. I sleep best with a ‘vacancy’ sign flashing outside my window and the roar of the freeway in the distance. I feel best at about five hundred miles an hour, not looking down but looking up, beyond atmosphere and trivial pursuits, to the level where the sky fades to black, just like some predictable movie selling soap to bored house husbands. I need love but not in my face. Just knowing it is there is usually enough. Once it descends into the Hell of internecine squabbling and righteous indignation, then I’d rather be alone, just me and the elements, air earth fire water. I just need to know it’s out there, waiting for me, just like I’m waiting for it. It doesn’t have to be reduced to chores and snores, shopping lists and rent receipts, and jockeying for bathroom rights. Love’s better than that. Save love for the sublime and the subliminal aspects of existence, the passage of solids into vapor without the intermediate phase of liquid, the passage of matter into spirit without the intermediate phase of thought, bodies making love in mid-air without so much as a glance downward, suspension of disbelief. Let the idle mind do the dirty work of handling liquids and scrubbing cracks. Let the hired hands change the tires and splice the wires. Let the experts fix the clocks and deal the stocks. Love should be pure and powerful, a force to be reckoned with, not a force to reckon with. Lovers should meet under waterfalls and rainbows, not under storm and stress. Lovers should meet between silk sheets and satin shirts, not between rushed dinners and hushed desserts. Love should be placed right on the pedestal where the Romans put it, posed and poised, romantic to a fault.

     
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    hardie karges 8:05 am on June 27, 2008 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: life,   

    Stories have convenient beginnings, middles, and endings; 

    life itself has nothing of the sort. Half thoughts and misfired synapses jockey for position in a bubble of consciousness defined only by memory and bordering on infinity. Stop re-normalizing equations; maybe mass is infinite at the speed of light. I sell my soul to sell my self, writing little stories to try to amuse the masses and still can’t get past the dead-letter file, so f%$# it. I’ll write what I want, maybe my unborn progeny will appreciate it some day, the ravings of a 21st century lunatic, legend in his own mind, lover of women and brother of men. I try to create meaning in a world that doesn’t necessarily have any. I try to do for paper what Picasso did for canvas, make love to it, then spurt my juices on its surface as my supreme gift. The only question is: do nouns and verbs accurately describe human existence? Is a picture really worth a thousand words? What are words worth on the open market anyway?

     
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    hardie karges 12:22 pm on June 25, 2008 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: , life   

    Forget plot. Life is the plot. 

    Everything else is pretentious pretense. One’s obra maestra is one’s life. The only art involved is to express the various elements that comprise one’s self in new and original combinations. Combination is the essence of art. Nothing is truly original. The same ideas occur at similar times in diverse places given similar situations to work within in an ever-contracting world. The challenge is to lose your self in your work, like creating a child from bodies destined to die, the child itself destined to die, immortality only achieved in the long run from past to future viewed by a mind’s eye too myopic to know that the concept itself is its only limitation. Lose yourself and find the path, a path, any path with heart that embraces infinity without embracing its limitations.

     
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    hardie karges 1:29 am on February 9, 2008 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: life, , ,   

    Night Life 

    The girls of Ensenada will never make a Playboy shoot.  I know that there are a lot of lonely people in the world, but this is ridiculous!  Nightlife in Mexico is surreal.  With their bouffant hairdos and gaudily painted faces, it’s like something from a dream, or a circus, or maybe just the past.  Mexican women are to normal women as Mexican food and music are to their ‘normal’ counterparts, an acquired taste.  Ensenada comes awake all of a sudden when the love-boat lands.  It’s like night and day.  The only thing I’ve seen like it is in Songkhla, Thailand, where bar girls watch and wait behind counters deadly silent, counting I guess, as if something will surely happen if only they wait long enough.  It does.  The foreign off-shore oil-field support workers come in, somebody rings the bell hanging over the bar, and all of a sudden the place is an uproar, with dancing and drinking erupting as if from a long dormant volcano.  Of course, nothing beats the ‘wookie bar’ along Sukhumvit in Bangkok for surrealism.  If you turned Thailand up on edge to sort out the loose nuts, this is where you’d go to pick them up.  Is this where you end up after cruising the parking lot of Shoney’s Big Boy in Jackson, Mississippi, as a teenager?  It’s bumper-to-bumper on a Saturday night in Ensenada.

     
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    hardie karges 4:45 am on January 28, 2008 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: , , life,   

    LAOS 

     

    Laos is a ramshackle village, a forgotten place on a forgotten map. Lights go off in the outback at nine, so do it with flashlights. Till then the crowd outside divides according to TV programs, Thai or Chinese, or maybe a French bistro roasting in Asian backwater. By day pigs wander the streets looking for something they might have forgotten, and turkeys keep watch from behind their wire fence. Buffalo jerky lies drying in the sunlight, while flies fall asleep on their pile of shit, and yard-dogs forget to bark. Akha men look like refugees from a Fassbinder film: tribal bikers on dope, kings in their naked village of naked women and naked babies. Still, the babies suck tit like there is no tomorrow, so maybe they’re right. If you want to see Thailand like it used to be, then you go to Laos.

     
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    hardie karges 8:15 am on January 24, 2008 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: life, , ,   

    Life and Love in Time of War 

    Black-pajama buzzard ladies line the Hanoi pavement perched on their haunches, chewing their betel nuts, grinning like Cheshire cats under their cone-shaped mushroom caps proving McKenna’s theory that we evolved from a psilo-cybernetic visitor from outer space. The men have their own perches on other branches, sucking on the business end of a water pipe loaded to the gills with long stringy shreds of tobacco. If Asians sometimes don’t even seem human, be assured the feeling is mutual. Somewhere across town foreigners light up ganja in a sidewalk café for the same reason that a dog licks its balls. The lady selling cigarettes in Saigon sells those left-handed ones by special request, just like she did back in the Tet offensive. I imagine those practices are being phased out by now as Vietnam re-enters the real world. Not so Cambodia. Cambodia specializes in filling those little gaps that others leave unattended. The girl in Siam Riep gave me her holiday photo as though we were first loves sharing the only little bits of ourselves that were available for public consumption. She was right. I never saw her again. Many a Thai man who’d kill another Thai man for looking at his girl would readily offer her up for an hour to a Farang to bounce off of as if the Farang weren’t really human so didn’t count. It’s just phone sex with a vibrator attached. Sometimes love seems no more than the relationship between that lump in your back pocket with that lump in the front, notwithstanding exotic currencies, floating exchange rates and general arbitrage of the soul.

     
  • Unknown's avatar

    hardie karges 9:58 am on January 14, 2008 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: , life, rivers   

    Rivers Meander 

    Tibet waters Asia.  It’s all downhill from there.  From its 20,000 foot plateau flow the headwaters of the Indus, the Brahmaputra, the Salween, the Mekong, the Yangtze, and the Huang Ho.  The headwaters of the Indus and Brahmaputra almost meet, almost making of India an island reminiscent of its former history as a transient sub-continent looking for a home plate to slide into.  The upper waters of the Salween, Mekong, and Yangtze run almost parallel for 250 miles, only fifteen to thirty miles apart as the crow flies.  Those three empty into the Andaman, South China, and East China Seas, not far from the cities of Rangoon, Saigon, and Shanghai, a distance of over 2000 miles on that same crow’s odometer.  It would be much farther than that by boat, and an immeasurable distance by yardstick.  How long is your coastline?  That depends; how short is your ruler?  Napoleon’s ears prick up and Zeno’s paradox takes over, and you never really get there, because the halfway points are infinite.  I’ll take wise old crow; he cuts to the chase.  

     

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