Jim is working tonight, so I, Mescaline Franklin, am sort of taking his place. He graciously allowed me to house sit his luxury bachelor pad and par take of his selection of fine spirits and reading material. Instead I sat on the porch in the notorious humidity of a Baltimore summer. Observing several of the native inhabitants passing by.
One solidly built, doo-rag sporting fellow walked with what looked like a metal walking cane that was maybe only a foot and half long. Obviously too short to be used for its intended purpose, he held it in the ready and move it slightly up and down in a sort of strange rhythm. He was at least the only pedestrian who did not stare at me as they passed, a few actually greeting me in a neutral manner as I nodded but did not reply.
The mugginess, the clouds in the sky mixed with the slowly descending sun and the surreal and constant background soundtrack of frogs chirping their mating song added to an otherworldly feel that I seem to get
Whenever I visit this place, whatever the season. Literally I am sitting on the edge of what seems like an outpost on an alien world, a settlement in the hostile backwoods of Indian country. After a while I decide to go the twin bars that each represent the two different worlds we muricans have been split up into as plantation subjects. My honor demands I go on foot which I have been advised not to do. There really is no choice for me and I walk down White (boy) Ave, the twilight sky beginning to emerge.
I must admit something, where Mr. LaFond lives is physically beautiful. It is elevated and one can see the skyline of the necropolis to the west quite clearly. The old Episcopal church is downright medieval. The elaborate stone fence that runs along the southwest corner of where Harford Road meets White Avenue has succulents planted in between the spacings evoking a classic European rock garden. The lurid sunset is like that of a dark horror fantasy book cover, menacing yet seductive. As Jonathan Bowden has mentioned, there is something about the gothic and the supernatural that appeals to those of the pale skin in a way that is different than the other races. We are more separated from it yet closer to it at the same time, and able to transcend the veil of it, bringing forth both untold rewards and soul shattering dooms.
I can smell the cooking at the barbeque joint named after the famous predatory nemesis of little red riding hood. This really could be a nice area and I can understand why the hipster homesteaders want to come here. I laugh inside as the progressive policies they push for are making it almost impossible for this to happen.
Unless, somehow, one can get these dindus out to the county. Hmm? Maybe that is their plan, to wait it out and then reap the rising property values? How thoroughly in their class interests yet I do not think they are that clever. You still got a black run city government, yo, and they still don’t like or respect you no matter how much you virtue signal to them. What they are trying to divert to their hated working and middle class cousins is going to envelop them as well. The aforementioned soul shattering dooms are far more devastating to the materialist mind, aka the Lovecraft protagonist aka the hipster SWPL liberal. Well I’m trying to go more in the Robert E. Howard direction thank you very much. That is the key to surviving and thriving in the future, despair being only one kind of fuel and not the end product. The Rudyard Kipling poem of how to be a man is another guide book as is any tome from Mister LaFond.
Well since I was James this evening, I had to act like him. I employed the swivel scan, the deliberate walking pace and the discipline of not talking to anyone outdoors in any capacity. I look like a macho asshole without trying to and disturbingly like many of the heroin addicts walking around with their two hour sleep patterns. I must focus on my goal, watering hole A and then watering hole B.
Watering hole A has some kind of trivia game going on and I recognize Quinn who is a friendly patron Jim and I have had many a conversation with. We fist bump and talk a bit. I get a Natty Boh’ on draft and find the trivia to actually be quite literary in nature with questions about Emily Dickinson and Tennyson poems. Whoa, even I don’t know that shit.
I sit in the empty area where I believe a drug deal is going down and I am being observed but not intimidated. I am that weird out of town tattooed smiling guy they have seen before with “Santa Claus”, writing down ideas on a napkin with my pilot pen and harmless. Being weird is another form of protection I have found so fly the freak flag as they say.
I leave and then cross Harford Road to watering hole B, the hipster spot. The bartender looks like a lesbian but she seems to really like me and is perhaps bisexual. I notice a tattoo on her ear as she gets me a local saison beer. I sit near the window and look as the sky is now darker but with a bit of light left. The abendlandes. The West. In the space of a half hour I count three separate groups of youths walking by, all in threes. Interesting.
As I leave in the increasing darkness, the only group I notice are two shirtless white trash dudes walking across the street in the same direction. White nationalist I may be I know these men are not my brothers and I listen to them talk loudly to each other. Pathetic and degenerate as they may be I keep them in my peripheral.
I pass the BBQ place and decide to get the special; a wonderful combination of bacon, brisket and pulled pork with a sweet sauce. Now there is something worth defending even more than myself! Nothing on this shadow world is going to stop me from eating this thing with a can of beer in the bachelor pad. Turning onto White Avenue, the fourth group of youngsters is coming in the opposite direction. They are walking in the street like me. I see acknowledge them with a nod and keep my pace, they eye me back but keep walking.
The aptly named White Avenue has its namesake denizens sitting on their porches, halfway hidden, smoking, talking, drinking but not venturing beyond their yard or driveway. They look at me probably figuring I am one of the half way house guys. I reach the LaFond estate and decide to hang on the porch as well. The frog’s mating song was now at a crescendo and I did not want to go inside. Give me the night, as the old George Benson song goes.
I should be enraged by this scenario and in the day time, when more lucid thoughts and reason hold sway, I am.
The people that rule us encourage this low scale war on us. You give them your money, sweat and they now want your blood or at the very least (and more likely) do not give a damn if its spilled.
But the twilight sky and darkness has a magic, the subtle dread being the flip side of an indescribable ecstasy Having the waitress at watering hole B up in the bachelor pad would have been the perfect punctuation to wandering around the Evening Land. There is a meaning, even in this empty waste land of modernity. Just because we only know a heap of broken images, as Eliot said, we can indeed “know” if we only feel the primal within us and link it to the energies ever flowing around us.
This is how things should be. The real world is coming back, kamerads. The question of out time is: can the Hollow Men be filled again?
And with what?
I have an idea. Read on brothers.
Nice work!
"...Jim is working tonight, so I, Mescaline Franklin, am sort of taking his place. He graciously allowed me to house sit his luxury bachelor pad and par take of his selection of fine spirits and reading material..."
What a nice fellow.
Damn Bizzaro Lafond. Quite a talent you have there. Really evokes the beauty of the Hamilton clusterf—k. You two should start a magazine called "Urban Outdoorsman".
Also, what a weird world when a white-nationalist can send a dude on a George Benson listening jag...the soundtrack to Baltimore thrift stores. Brought back some good memories.
I was looking around and saw Alton Sterling get shot by the police, Philando Castile get shot by the police and now 10??? cops have been shot at a protest in Dallas. If you read the stuff I've written you know I'm hardly a lover of Black people but the cops have just gone completely nuts. They shoot people at the slightest or even no provocation. When they have people on the ground or are right next to them there's no point in shooting them. The Police actions make it more dangerous for ALL WHITE people. The Police are going to start a large scale insurrection where the Whites are still not allowed to fight back. The Police are way out of hand. Yet I can readily see their viewpoint that if the worse sort of Blacks get control everything will got to hell. It's a terrible situation.
Look at the Alton Sterling shooting. He shot the guy twice while he was being held by two people on the ground. Then he pauses and shoots him three more. We all know the three more was to make sure he never testified in court. He executed him.