Aug the Ninth
This is not the first time I’ve started an entry midway through the page, but it is the first time I’ll say this: doing so makes me somewhat uncomfortable. THERE, I SAID IT!! But that much is understandable, Journal. If you were in the car with me earlier and you were somehow given consciousness and perception, you’d be lowkey shaken up too. I… well, I don’t even want to hint at it. I’m ‘bout’a writing this just for you, Jou-Jou. Nobody else gets to read this, and even if they do, it will be in rhyming form a few years down the road.
Here we go.
… … …
A shining sun, a bumpin’ sound system, a passenger window slightly cracked to let the pot smoke dissipate a bit in the car’s air pocket before being sucked out into the open world, and the open world all around me just flyin’ on by: this was my reality. I spent the day on the road, as wanderers shall whether they be lost or found; I toured through Dantez Furnace, followed a family of deer up into Iiron Heights, went to bomb on Bogspekti Park but of course the gate was closed, the gate is always closed, the Bogspekti clan is far too wealthy to so much as entertain the idea of allowing the rest of the hillbilly townsfolk with their nasty dirty shoes to crunch the leaves littering the floor of their forests just waiting to catch a spark off some friction and burst into flames, no sir no how no way, I say! So I’m turning around, I’m getting ready to light up another joint, this will have been my eighth one of the day – that’s right, I had smoked and converted to ashes not even half of the drive’s weed ration by the time I got finished seeing all of what Logger’s Pond has to offer, which ain’t very much – when I pass by what else but the Logger’s Pond Public Library, a facility in which my friend Harry runs a newspaper. I pass the driveway completely, slam on the brakes, kick my ride into reverse, and back into that bitch half-sideways. Boom, kapow, and you’re damn skippy I did. Don’t even trip, dawg.
Looking back, I’m very lucky there were no other cars on the road at the time. That could have been tragic.
So I drive in reverse down the driveway and into a spot in the parking lot. I’m not alone here – I see Harry’s BMW with no less than two electric sedans huddled around it like… like… I don’t know. I’m so high I can’t describe things well, so just be grateful I’m transcribing this story at all! In alternate timelines I lit up instead of writing this entry out. Yeesh, could you imagine not just doing both?
Anyway, so there are other cars in the parking lot, which tells me there are folks inside the library. So I get out, I walk across the parking lot, and I can hear the music before I even get to the door, the bass is thumping like a kangaroo kick-boxing class. The place looked empty through the glass of the front doors, all the lights out and whatnot. I knocked anyway.
Do you want to know what happened when I knocked? The music stopped. They heard me knocking, Journal, and they shut off the music. So I knocked again. And again. And again. Still nothing.
So then I decided to shoot Harry a text and let him know it’s me come a’knockin’ on his library door, because I get it, this is Logger’s Pond, the townsfolk are strange. Odd birds for sure, no doubt about it; if I was try’n’a have some fun at work on a weekend and a local yokel came try’n’a barge my door down I’d pretend I wasn’t there too. So I send the text, I do, and I get the read receipt, I see that he opened and saw my message, but there was nothing by way of a response. So I reread my message and tried to simulate his reaction in my mind, as I infrequently do sometimes, and how funny is it that as soon as I finish reading my own message in Harry’s voice in my thoughts, the music turns back on. Louder than it was when I was coming up to the door, too, I can feel it in the center of my brain, so I lock’n’pocket my phone, I start knocking again, and then I feel my phone go off. It’s Harry, says he’s not at the library, must be his coworkers. I ask about his car – Journal, I sent the ‘man a picture of his car sitting surrounded in the library parking lot – and he told me that he sometimes lets the coworkers borrow his car, especially on the weekends, probably because it makes him feel good about himself to lend his flashy shit out to us poor hick folks.
ANYWAY, so I decide fine, I get it, the universe is speaking to me, and I decided to listen. I got back in the car, rolled down Mane Road with a lit joint clouding up my interior to neutralize the concussive confusion I was just beat upside the head with by one Harrington Bogspekti Whose Father Runs the Town of Logger’s Pond, and just as I was about to crack that passenger window and let some of the stank out, a cop pulls up behind me. No flashing lights, no siren, but it’s a police car with two officers sitting in it. As I’m staring at them through my rearview, another cop car pulls out of the parking lot of the seedier of the two secondhand shops in town – the two that I remember, at least; there’s no telling how many of them were opened during my collegiate hiatus, the shits pop up like gophers out of burrows in small towns like Logger’s Pond where the folks spend money out of a lack of other shit to do, but it’s dark in here, I’d like to get out of the soapbox and get back to my tale – and tails the first one. So now there’s a goddamned conga line of coppers led by none other than Albey the Mad Poet driving some poorly maintained sedan, and trust me ladies and gentlemen, the Poet was about as Mad as he could be at that moment.
So I take my little convoy for a nice little tour down little ol’ Mane Road under the assumption that they’d fuck off before Sawblade Lane, because everyone fucks off before Sawblade Lane. Sawblade Lane was the first paved road in this town, the rest of the folk are mountain but us Sawbladers are deep mountain, the kind you don’t want to sip tea with, the kind where ambulances require a police escort to even think about taking that last turn off Mane. Christ in a barrel of crackers I am BAKED right now.
Somehow they’re still hangin’ with me after I pass the last storefront; at this point I’m panicking so hard that I don’t even see it when I pass it. I swear, one day before I inevitably move out of Logger’s Pond to pursue my dreams and secure me a bag, word to Joey Cool, I will find out what that last store on the left is, and I will make a purchase there.
Right before the Sawblade Lane turnoff point there’s a big dirt shoulder with a college degree in Parking Lot that works as an unpaved cul-de-sac for the bumbling townsfolk of Logger’s Pond who are so lost in their own bumbling that they DAREto mistakenly drive down to where their town allegedly started, OH THE HORROR.
THE HORROR OF IT ALL!!!
I turn onto Sawblade Lane with a foggy back windshield and air vents on a mission to ensure my continued inhalation of smoked pot. The cops turn in behind me. I lower my music so I can see better and try my very best not to grind the brake pedal into the floor of my car, but I can almost guarantee my back reds were on the entire drive. Journal, I can almost g u a r a n t e e.
So we cruise for a quarter mile. He’s at least one car length behind me, the one in front. We tackle another quarter mile. Suddenly, I can no longer read his license plate because, like my teeth, it is in my mouth, but unlike my teeth, the nose of his car is shoved so far up my ass that it’s smushing my uvula against the back of my throat, and it feels just lovely. It is at this point, when the cops are close enough to my behind that there’s no reason to doubt their ability to perceive the fact that my car is full of smoke, that they turn their lights on.
Journal, I lost feeling in my legs for a couple seconds. All pins and needles all up and down my shit, it was horrific. Total anxiety, that’s what police officers do to me. I just don’t trust ‘em, ‘man, I just do not trust those boys in blue, not when my town government pays them to patrol around with guns on their hips. Sorry, guys, I truly am, but there’s no need to have an armed security force actively patrolling the streets of Logger’s Pond, like, come on. Fucking ridiculous. And don’t even get me started on the fetidly corrupt town government, don’t even get me started…
Huh, why’d it get so dark all of the sudden? Did I wander into the soapbox again?
Well I can’t pull over, if they can see that I’m driving a cloud wrapped in a car then they can see there’s nowhere for me to pull that cloud over on the side of the road, so I keep on cruisin’ and their sirens – both of the cops have their red’n’blues on now, it’s a regular goddamn parade down Sawblade Lane today folks – keep on blarin’ for another quarter of a mile. Then I see that hidden driveway I mentioned the other day and totally forgot about until this particular moment which I’m struggling to describe, and across the street from that is a little dirt shoulder, just like the one at the end of Mane Road except much, much smaller.
“I could turn into the driveway, see if they’ll follow me into the woods,” I said aloud to myself, or perhaps I thought it, it was very hard to tell at the moment and it’s even harder to remember now because the smoke’s so thick you could pop it into an oven and easybake it into an edible. “If they do and I hop out I could probably outrun them.”
I won’t front, I’m not an athlete. I haven’t gone running since the last time we took a family vacation to the beach and that was over a decade ago, but these cops following me? These are Logger’s Pond cops, these aren’t real, respectable cops. Hell no, fuck no, these are pissants who have nowhere to go in life now that they’ve graduated high school so they figure HEY, YOU KNOW WHAT SOUNDS GOOD? MINDING EVERYONE ELSE’S BUSINESS FOR TWO DECADES AND THEN RETIRING WITH A WEEKLY PENSION PAYCHECK!!
I don’t like irresponsible policing, nor the misspent funding that goes with it, nor the adequate training which it fails to administer. Thank you for coming to my TED talk. Eat a dick, you shouldn’t be reading my journal anyway.
Fortunately for the officers, I wasn’t feeling a run at the moment as my lungs had more tar in them than the asphalt road down which I was taking this police chase, so I take a deep breath – quite possibly the last deep breath of pot I’ll ever get to take because I’m about to get thrown in jail for driving under the influence of an intoxicant which, I’ll admit, not my greatest decision, and I pull over onto the shoulder. Put her in park. Close my eyes. Take another breath of that sweet, smoky pot smoke, and lower my window to let the fumes out and save the police officer the trouble of asking me if I’ve been smoking the devil’s lettuce today, and… there’s nobody there.
JOURNAL, THERE WAS NOBODY THERE!!!
Neither of the cops pulled in behind me, Journal! They were still driving down the road – cops in general, not the ones who were following me – but instead of pulling over and surrounding me like the plant-smoking criminal mastermind and/or terrorist I obviously am, they all turned down that hidden dirt driveway and disappeared into the impenetrable wood. Could you imagine if I decided to try to escape down that way? Jesus, that would have been game over for Albey, not another poem to be written. That would have… I literally would have been arrested, my life would have been over. I was that close, Journal. That close to losing it all. It was like the incident with The Peace Piece all over again, except the stakes were, just like me then and me now, all the much higher.
But I didn’t try to take them down the hidden dirt driveway. I did the responsible thing, the thing any other citizen of these great United States would allegedly have done if they’re all as flawless as their rash and flagrant judgment of everyone around them would suggest they are: I pulled over on the side of the road with every intention of cooperating with the law and allowing myself to be imprisoned because I enjoy a habit that makes the guys in charge shit their geriatric diapers.
And how funny is it that, as I’m opening my window and watching the humongous cloud of pot smoke waft up and dissipate into the air, I notice a little hole in the treeline. The forest is still pretty thick up there where I was parked, it doesn’t start to really thin out until about a mile in, but all the same there it was, a tiny little hole in the treeline, a game trail if ever I have seen one, and Journal? Trust me, I have.
So, as the police cars fly by me and my monumental cloud of pot smoke, I get out and walk down the trail with all the rest of my joints damn near falling out of my pocket. It was a long hike, at least twenty-five minutes, maybe half an hour, but then I got there. Then I got there, Journal. Then I finally got there.
The game trail took me to a clearing. No, not just a clearing – a clearing at the end of a path. An arboreal oasis.
The leaves on the trees were a brighter, more youthful green – the green of springtime rather than that of evergreens in the winter – than the other trees in the wood. There were these floating orbs of yellow light as if by the bulbs of fireflies, but they didn’t blink on and off like fireflies will do. There was a faint mist as well, and these orbs seemed to walk across the mist, to flit betwixt the knotty, rugged bark of the oak and maple trees, to kiss the tips of the blades of tall grass as they swooped low to the leafless forest floor…
Okay, there were no ethereal lights or mist or anything, and the grass looks more like the shoulder I parked in than the Routes in the Pokémon games (meaning it was leaves and dirt), but that’s the vibe the spot gave off. It was… it’s absolutely beautiful. It’s almost a perfect circle, too, and the area around it is wealthy in purple puddingstones, which I prefer over the alternative. The pink ones are nice, the color is great, but the pink ones very rarely, if ever, have the white quartz studs that the purple ones have. But anyway, my obsession with north Jersey’s wacky rocks aside, do you smell what I’m stepping in here? Do you feel me, Journal?
I found the spot for my campsite (:
It’s a mile drive from my house, so I won’t feel like I’m in my backyard. It’s about a half hour off the road, so I won’t even hear it if a car drives along Sawblade while I’m back there. It’s totally immersive, it has the feeling of being hopelessly stranded deep in the forest with the convenience of being able to go in and out in under an hour if I really hustle! It’s perfect, Journal! It’s perfect!
Oh, and the ground may be leafen and woodsy, but it’s H E L L A comfortable to lay on while smoking joints. I would know, I smoked at least seven of them out there. For sure at least seven.
So that’s my story. I was L-riding, I got involved in a many-car police chase, and I found Shangri La off the side of Sawblade Lane. Tomorrow the process of building my campsite begins. I shall call it: “The True Commons.” Because fuck Harrington Bogspekti, I don’t know if he was lying or truthing me about lending his car to a coworker, but he doesn’t deserve to have The Hillside Commons, he was never really part of that. He was hardly even a part of it when he was a part of it, but whatever! I’m only being petty because I’m high, maybe I won’t call it The True Commons. Maybe I’ll call it something else. We’ll see.
… … …
There we went. That was fun! Like, woah! I wrote hella words and I didn’t even mean to, that shit just flew by! Damn… you know, maybe Keaton wasn’t totally offbeat with the THC book idea… but I’m still not going to tell you about that, Journal. Sorry. Telling you about it would make it real, y’know? It would make it real in my own little world, and I’m not sure if I’m ready for the THC book idea to be real in my own little world yet. Matt’a’fact, considering how I don’t even know if I’m ready for the THC book idea to be real, I’m definitely not ready. Ho-ho, hey-hey, a story for another day. Literally!
But no lie, writing that story back there was kind of fun. I’m not one to read my own journal entries back to myself, but that story? I might read that back. We’ll see. The writing is probably atrocious, but it’s a funny story. If nothing else, I’ll just bank it for telling during the next campfire sesh, whenever that will be.
Hah, maybe it’ll be when I finish the book… if the book is even real in the first place. For all you know I’m making it all up… for all I know I misremember that night and Keaton never even brought it up.
For all I know, I’m in a book right now…!
Lmao, imagine how fucking stupid that would be. If all of life was just a novel in some other universe. I’d be so mad.
But anyway… yeah ‘man. That all happened today. I’m definitely going back to that spot tomorrow, fuck Harry and the boys. The Pact boys, almost forgot about that dumb culty nonsense. A blood oath, what the fuck? Yeesh. I can’t wait to have this camping spot, I need my own place to go where I can feel truly, truly at home. At home in a way that I can’t feel at my parents’ house, y’know?
No, I suppose you don’t, because you’re a journal. And I’m a human, a human named Sidney “Albey” Blake. And it is excruciatingly late right now, and I scrawled so many symbols, and my hand is in so much pain.
And I have a yet unburned party favor left over from the day’s festivities to remedy that pain. Ho-Ho. Hey-hey.
… … …
Thank you, Journal. ‘Preciate ya. Good sleeps and greatest dreams~
Hello Commons, this has been the next journal entry from Untitled Bigfoot Project, a novel about a writer who writes a novel about bigfoot.
Untitled Bigfoot Project is part of the Third Spiral, an anthology of sorts called The Here and Now which is comprised of stories told from the various planes of Existence.
Untitled Bigfoot Project is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.
I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.
If you like Untitled Bigfoot Project and would like to help support my work, click here and buy an autographed copy of the book (or anything else!) from my store. Alternatively, you can snag a cheaper (and unsigned) copy from Amazon by clicking here.
Be well Commons~