A woman and three children are collecting the wild Istrian asparagus. They trace the perimeter of the park. My Croatian friend approaches me- we visited Hum two days ago. I am introduced to his brother. I hear the children counting in Croatian- they are moving upwind, towards the Adriatic, from where I sit facing Rovinj proper.
Cool. We'll, yeah, talk about this other stuff, though:
On Facebook, someone wrote this, approximately.
Guys, uh, hey. So, I’m hungry. What should I eat? I don’t know. Hmmm. Maybe I will look at all the responses you give me and make the best one and eat it.
Well. Inspired by this anonymous Facebook ’user,’ as we are called, I will give those of you that are listed, as ‘followers’ (of these occasionally FICTIONALIZED non-fiction accounts of a semi-suicidal, drug-dealing and adulterous global transient) a chance to play along with me. Okay/ok/k. A few options:
Opt. 1:
We continue the story-line where we left off, with our protagonist engulfed in the mental convulsions of an existential crisis, swearing off all creative output (we‘ll switch to a sort of omniscient narrator, or bring in a new character, say someone already fully entrenched in the sewers of Komaja) ready to join Komaja, the sex/naturist/spirituality/sporting group in a laughable quest for redemption, that leads to a continued downward plunge into desperation and debauchery. We could call this one something like, “Reprobation.”
Opt. 2:
We have a scene that could be explored further, where our character is lounging, post-coital, on the top bunk at a hostel, engaged in a douche-y high-fiving ritual with a Serbian I have called Karlovac, in honor of the eponymous Croatian town, famous, at least to me, for the pretty-much-eponymous beer, Karlovacko. This and other exploits of the duo we can call the ‘hound-pounders.’
Opt. 3:
We could explore the suicide scene in beautiful Plitvice National Park, (just south of Karlovac, by, say, two hours on a bus) a UNESCO World Heritage Site, not because it contains any physical structures that the UN deems worthy of protecting, (presumably from the Croatian people, which is what I always sense is implied, in terms of underlying motives, that is, protecting the thing from the people that have it- seems culturally-imperialist, a bit, to me. Plus, how are these things decided, etc. I really don‘t know that much about it, honestly.) actually, it is listed under the UNESCO World Heritage heading UNESCO Natural World Heritage Sites. No doubt an attempt to preserve natural phenomena/ whatever, of which Plitvice certainly is worthy, but anyhow, if we do this one, (funny side note: at the place where I was staying, in the village of Mukinje, the proprietress told me that when the UN came in after the war, they said that the people were not allowed to swim there anymore. “We have our spots though,” she said coyly, “And for some guests, we take you there too, not all, just some.” I like to think that I would be one of the guests they would take for an illegal swim.) it could be funny to see what happens if I just continue to publicly display suicidal musings.
Opt. 4:
Bring back an old character, you pick: Hamburg-Tanner, the aggressive old gay with the whore-bitten ear. Sangre the violent, but charmingly loyal spider-monkey from the Kiev Zoo. Drama, who may or may not have been (shit, what’s that word when a ghost gets inside of you? I almost wrote colonized- which presents an interesting image, certainly, but 'colonized' is not my word; not today at least. It was a ridiculous night last night that began with medica, and ended with medica, as the Istrian proverb proclaims) well, we'll just say: he may and may not has been lets ghosts to be in him controlling mind of his.
Opt. 5:
Or a new topic- something you’ve been curious about for a long, long time and maybe you just didn‘t know the right way to say this thing that you so want to see me express. Well let me be your conduit, baby.
Maybe nobody gives a shit/dignifies any of this with a response- not even you, Stephen Kaskade? Ne ne- you‘ll respond- yours is a Balkan name- perhaps you are one of those Bosnian bakers who make that warm bread I so love filled with either meat, cheese or potatoes, and carrying a name that always reminds me of burka, which, I can't remember, is it bursa? Well, damn you medica (medica is a specialty of Istria, derived from grapes and infused with honey: 'med' means honey in Croatian, or at least in the Istrian form of Croatian, which is notable for its Italian influence and a general truncation of words and phrases). When I subsequently ask and learn the correct word for this warm and doughy treat, I immediately forget, lost, as you no doubt, probably envision me, in some foggy state of dereliction. Kaskade, I would pronounce: cash-cause-gee (I am guessing). So if I am hearing only silence on the topic of these options, then I, once again, must see what tainted manna I will receive, consume, and convey to you- umm, you know, like, our normal process of conduction.
Now. Since we are going more for a casual banter/ candid, self-indulgent dialogue format today, here’s something else I either concocted, received or stole outright.
Sung to the tune of “I shot the Sherriff”:
All around Komaja town,
They tryin to strip me down.
For what. I don’t know.
Well not that; I mean I guess, sort of (above). I meant more, this:
As a further exposition of my self-indulgent, narcissistic, pseudo-self-aware, medica-tainted extravagancies, what follows is an abandoned attempt at a (not recommended reading for those who find parodies of suicide somehow unfunny. If this is you, maybe you should click the button that says ‘next blog,’ where you will be sure to find a well crafted dissertation on knitting in the presence of kittens, or the requisite chronicles of a lonely housewife and her daily challenges with faith, friends and family, or some naïf playing film critic, or if, additionally, you are fed up with this whole reading thing for the day, there is certainly someone posting non-digitally-enhanced photographs of their baby‘s daily progression towards an eventual state of numb and benighted self-importance in accordance with the old adage, ’like begets like’) continuation of last weeks’ pre-Easter, April Fool’s/ Fish Day piece/ cry for help, “Announcement,” which, judging by the responses, was one of the more captivating/manipulating things I have written/cleverly constructed.
II: “Daniel. I, actually, we, are worried about you.”
I was prepared to respond to a photo posted by my Karlovac character. The idea was that in retribution for my confession (see “Announcement”) and subsequent defection to Komaja, he made public some implicating pictorial evidence of me using/celebrating and/or reveling in, the use of opium. This condemning photographic evidence would lead to attention by an overzealous, loose-tongued, non-blood family member, and some minor local authority.
I was going to edit and craft the following into something biting and snidely funny:
That was not opium in my mouth- that was a unique Moroccan pinecone. So, for the family member to which I will refer to as Got-ya, I know you reported me to the DEA, because I met with their proxy in the Macedonian embassy in Zagreb, based on your written testimony- oh, and he has the videos (sorry- but he seemed so cool) of you drinking the crushed-up Ritalin/ Percocet mixture, dissolved in Kool-aid, frozen in an ice cube tray with carefully placed green toothpicks set with the intention of creating, “Popped-sicles,” as you say, more like slur, that is, if you're not hunched and drooling while your eye-lids flutter uncontrollable and just, well, freaky-like. No worries. Besides, we had quite a chat about drugs, me and Hvar, you see, and he said that the law is quite lenient when it comes to artists living abroad writing about the extent of their reprobation, and in fact, if I understood him correctly, there may be a jointly-funded Balkan Artist-in-Residency Grant that he was promising to “short-list” me for. So, got ya.
I knew though, that rather than go deeper into this bile-smelling world, perhaps the whole drug-based story-line is a bit tired. So I wanted to explore the spiritual angle:
I have been saved, dear friends. On my way to the initiatory game of Komajan pidzgin, I had the fortune of meeting Pastor Kunkelbunt. We shared a Zagreb basement at a hostel, aptly named, “Bog je,” an allusion to the Croatian phrase “Bog je prvo sebi bradu stvorio” (Translation: God first created a beard for himself). He would be a Southern Pastor, un-ordained from, rural Georgia or W. Virginia, and he would be taking global, a niche blend of snake-handling, speaking in tongues, and pan-deism. Shit, let's say he's got some sort of sex thing in there too. He would have been expelled from his congregation for a sermon on how God wants the congregation to purchase their nutritional supplements from him, as he is also a licensed ‘Herbalife’ dealer. Of course I wouldn’t know about his U.S.A. huckstering, or that he was not going global by choice, but because of his attempts at exploiting his position in the name of his previously mentioned huckstering, and because of my susceptible state, I would be receptive to his mission to build a new mission of sorts in some naturist crevice of the Balkans.
Lastly, I was tempted to create a series of fake letters (actually, I recieved three emails last week, of note: 1. reader thought I had gotten the tattoo, and, disgusted, stopped reading there. 2. one reader fussed that I should just come home and he can read to me and rub my back and stop all this suicide-potty-talk; no thanks, bro. 3. One reader implored/ pep-talked me into writing again: this was the best, better than the people who were concerned for my life- quite a complement, really.) from concerned people, etc. That was dull to write, and would have been dull for a person to, uhm-yeah, presumably read, and so, I included this one, that would have had the false heading: “sent via blackberry.”
Dude! Cray-z shite- you da man, but yous is ick in the head since is when is it cool to do jokes abt suicide!!! Not funnny dog! My little sister just overdosed on milk- trying to drink a gallon in under an hour. She was we found her passed out in the maintenance shed at UPS school, covrd in cats whos all round drinking n licking hef milk vomit shit dude. n shes n dpession counseling cuz we think its a suicide attempt no joke.
Show sum respect people could die!!!
Peace
-JKO
Okay, so, do you see? Today, instead of more of my standard reflexive/masturbatory/shock&awe style rants:
One thing, per earlier stated request:
1. Let me know what story I should write for Friday. Please let me know by Thursday.
