El Estranjero Originale

Earlier today, it was January 21, but as of now, it is Tuesday, the 22, 2:04am. They will certainly be pleased to read the numbers one and four next to one another, followed by a little f, lit up in electric green on the LCD display of my vehicle. But it’s a warm 14 degrees. Tolerable. I’ve been more uncomfortable on windy days in the 30’s. Shit, I’m outside righting this write now. Krust, the one-eyed cat is sniffin and rubbin all up on me as I write and try to keep my cigarette from putting his other eye out. Oh yeah, If anybody out there is missing a big black and white cat, de-clawed, fixed, one eye, flea collar holler. foundurcat@gmail.com. For real yo, he needs to find his way home. He found the cat-door at my house and moved in on Xmas eve. He hasn’t left yet and hasn’t been paying rent and eats all the food, so it’d be nice if I could find his real owner. Today was stable and semi productive. Some reading. Some writing. Some correspondence. Some errands. Today The Rat propositioned me with an offer too enticing to refuse. A terribly sad song by Colplay is randomly chosen for me by the itunes. The sounds emanating from the speakers littered about the room have now decimated what little train of thought I was working with and thrust me elsewhere. The song, “Lights will guide you home…” Seemingly out of nowhere I feel something in my eye. A tear wants badly to form in the corner of the now red and tired crusted left eye. I don’t allow it. Then he sings, as if on cue, “The tears stream down your face when you lose something you can not replace…” Squarepusher’s Iambic9 Poetry brings me back to the present and the aforementioned topic. The Rat has passed me a microphone and invited me to be one of the voices of the soon to eat the world Crushed Linen Corporation. Perhaps an ingenious bit of thinking on his part, perhaps not. We shall wait. We shall see. Nevertheless, The Original Stranger sent on a mission to touch the masses. A journey that may possibly enlighten some, intrigue a few and probably confuse a great handful that stumble unwittingly into the path of the poisoned pen. So much to contribute, so much to share with the populace. Best get started then. The time has come to shed some light. Not too much. Just some. Start spreading the gospel of Lurkology. Teach the children about Lurkophelia and the Crevice Art movement along with its origins. Discuss exemplary examples of crevice artists; musicians, writers, painters, skateboarders and other great thinkers throughout history that find themselves snuggled at home in that genre, find themselves at home in that way of life. Together we can start the world’s first Lurxionary, or glossary of terms used heavily by lurkers and crevice artists the world over. Simply magnificent indeed. Not certain what words will pour from my brains and onto your screens in the future as of the present, but so long as I remain free of the shackles of censorship and my words are read, I will continue to write them. Possibilities are without limit indeed. I’m honored, having been given the opportunity to contribute anything to an organization of such extraordinary magnitude as Crushed Linen Clothing. Closing on a bit of a stranger note, leaving you with a tidbit. A tiny, infinitesimal morsel of my cerebellum to taste. To either savor genuinely or spit out in utter disgust, until the next time. Hopefully it tickles your fancy some. If not, find someone else to tickle that thing.

Until then,

Yours in ambiguity,

The Original Stranger

“Ode to the Booger Scab”

I have one of those excruciating and wonderful booger-scabs. You know, those fleshy little tidbits that hurt so dreadfully, yet are so darn amusing for the picker to pick. At times, you just can’t wait long enough for them to be restored to health. Yet when the time comes that they finally do heal, you miss them ever so fiendishly and envision the day. The day you will, at long last, be finally blessed with a fresh, unsullied and brand spanking new booger scab to extract. Oh, booger scab! Its been, to a certain extent, a pleasurable week together, but I’m troubled by the notion that if we carry on with this relationship, one of us is certainly going to get injured. We must stop. Discontinue. Bring this to a halt at once. Not look back. Not now, not ever. Before it gets too late. Before…before…before one of us gets infected. It will be arduous I know. Oh, I know, I’ll miss you too. Miss you ever so dearly. But have faith, when have I ever steered you wrong? Trust me, its what’s best for the both of us. Or maybe just for me I thought. Oh sweet, syrupy, delightful yellow, crusty reddish booger scab, just let go. Give your heart a chance to grow. It’s a shame for us to part, yet I’m certain our paths will eventually cross again and we will, once again enjoy a week or three of pick and flick and bleed. That’s the crevice indeed.

“Ode to the Booger Scab”