Dear Dad by Erik Christian Read Free Book Online Page B

cans and dog fur, no, they were lined up for shooting practice with Burroughs and Hunter. They spoke and told stories so I didn’t have to, along with everyone else who tells a story with conviction, like the comedian who tells a joke under the spotlight as if it were there last. Comedians are suicidal. Their dialogue is loaded with suicidal innuendo just like everyone could have saved Kurt Cobain if they had listened to his lyrics. Life is a tightrope for the Genius, walking naked with their toes bleeding a hundred feet in the air.
     
    I love old photos of lumberjacks, standing around Redwood trees that are as wide as cars. They are men that are skinny but scrappy. It was work hard, play hard and the older ones sat in their own corner conversing a different modality, of prophets jargon and wise but demonic transgressions. The older ones held nothing above or below anyone and it was their ribs that etched the bed sheets at night with little concealed pools of blood and self pity. Another Thousand days and they will have earned enough for somebody’s silk tie today. The smell of sawdust and of whiskey mingling with the exhaust of the chainsaw could enlighten any business man. There would be a parade every friday night through the little Mainstreet and you would peer out your window and laugh with the opposite sex. There would be no work for another week. The only precursory witness to your debauchery is the pet that loves you unconditionally. There are no little games here. It’s meat and flesh and holds golden like a Rainbow in your child’s eyes, that of a million ambitions they wish for.   .   .

    EXPECTATIONS OF OURSELVES
     
    Expectations of ourselves is the only thing that stifles us. I have managed to live the first forty years of my life without a burdening guilt of accomplishment. I look around and see other’s my age, stressed out about work and family. My sister, who is four years older, is living the American Dream at any cost. It’s a competitive world and if you have not reached certain milestones that people think you should achieve, you feel like crap. Then, there are the people who drop out of society and slowly deteriorate, by use of drugs, alternative lifestyle and abandoning any kind of dress code. Dress code? Did I just say that?
     
    I still live in a converted school bus. 95 percent of people who know about it or have visited are cool with it, but then the five percent look at me like I’m crazy. How can I live this way? They ask. Do you have running water? Where do you go to the bathroom? There is fear in their eyes. If it was hard, I would have abandoned ship years ago, but I’ve been living in the thing for fifteen years. In fact, I have a girlfriend, two cats and a Beta living here also. There are trails that jut off into the woods, I burn my trash (God forbid!) I have a little garden that got washed away by the last heavy rainfall. It’s like living in the last frontier, like Alaska. When I was young, I thought that living in a school bus would set me apart from others and give me an artist edge, well, I’m still waiting for that dynamic shift. It seems that age and social acceptance go hand in hand and I find myself now wanting what every other American consumer wants. I see a new Porsche driving by and my jaw drops a little. I can smell money a mile away. Why is this? I just want money to leave me the fuck alone, but I’m still striving and thriving and apparently haven’t killed my ego with enough drugs.
     
    I watch old movies from the 60’s and 70’s and people were so relaxed. Like, watching Madmen, every scene someone is smoking or holding a glass of whiskey. In the 20’s you could get gunned down in Chicago. It was common day for murder to be lurking somewhere. Now, people are worried if they have the best ranked app for their Android. I’m somewhere in-between, not quite tech savvy and not quite ready to gun down the squirrels in my backyard.
     
    Living a alternative