Big Sur
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- kingjulien
They're all witches. And when I say they, I mean Ron Blake and the secret poisoning society, which also includes the gay general who was floating in jizm at the hot springs, the waitress who kicked us out for not having food during the lunch rush at Nepenthe but instead ordering four double vodka tonics on empty stomachs (and also because the Jackal kept touching her arm when she walked by to get to the next table - sometimes he's creepy like that) , the secretary at the Henry Miller bookstore for questioning the coded messages I left on their answering machine the previous night at 3:00 am (I mean, we had to speak with Henry and he wouldn't pick up, and it was urgent, and I don't care if he goes to bed early these days) and Double Barrel Daryl from Long Beach and his fucking pit bull, who evidently bit a two year old girl near the eye after we left Molera - we having left because he popped off a few too many times about why he didn't like my theory of transferring the desert in Mexico to the Israeli's to build the world's largest garment district and boost the Mexican economy innumerably - his wife was an illegal and he's oversensitive about the subject, even when he knew I was kidding, so I had to take my mallet to his tent in the middle of the night, which concluded with my insistence that we drive back to north Oakland that very second - in fear that I might attack again, only to stop 5 minutes later at the next campground and set up tents illegally right along the bank of the river - where the Park Ranger arrived at sunrise to ask for our passes, but who was understandably cool when I explained the situation and why we didn't have them - how I didn't want to kill Double Barrel so I left Molera, and how we were researching a screenplay on Kerouac's book of the same name, then followed that up by telling her she had a glorious essence about her - which was the truth - and then she said well thank you, that's very swweet of you, and then she took us off the path deep into the back country with her toolbelt fastened along her waist and her little bb gun tucked into her shirt, where, in full stupor, we found the most private beach in all of Big Sur, and forgetting about the dripping poison oak that developed around my eye days later - and how it oozed down by face during a meeting - one that cost me a residency at Intersection for the Arts, I spent the rest of the afternoon working through the DT's, praying to the sand and talking to the waves in small little private chants, as I slowly, and undeniably, alongside the ghosts of Jack himself, made my way to heaven.
- kyl30
bravo
- grunttt0
i occasionally search for KJ's post to see if i missed one.
i missed this one. it's a good one.
- rasko40
I too had missed this one.
I also regret not stopping at the henry miller library that time we drove past down highway 1 along the windy coast of big sur and the mansions of carmel.
- xenicon0
The Henry Miller Bookshop had a doorway like a cathedral, but smaller, yet just as vaginal. My friend stole the exit sign.
