Wednesday, April 19, 2006

Man In Chair Facing Southwest

Hilltop. Man in Chair Facing South West. San Diego. A friend of mine took my photo in this comfortable chair. My friend with whom I'll probably never have any more contact, since she got married. How and why is that? Because I'm single and no longer a part of her world, which is married and on to other things? I don't know. What of it? Who cares? I just want to die some times. I don't care about a goddamn thing. I don't want to kill myself but I tell you I'd like to go to sleep and never wake up some times. I just don't care. I just don't give a good goddamn some times. That is how I feel. I'd much rather sit in a chair in a comfortable store front and watch the world go away than I would want to have to do any thing like work or fret over trivial stuff like the war and gas prices and what I'm going to do for the rest of my stupid life. I don't have any convictions or any thing. My pittance is just that. I don't have the drive weal desire or compunction to blow myself up in a crowd of people or don a uniform and liberate people. I just don't care. Not that much, not that bad. I don't care. I would much rather sit and not be hungry cold tired and I'd rather come up with ideas to write and be able to write and publish and get well paid for every thing. Nothing more.

A Journal Entry

Words From the Journal(4.17.06)For You & You & You
I bed down at sundown. I wake up and sometimes even get up while it's still dark, quiet; when no one else is around, stirring, interrupting me or my flow/take on things; no questions good or bad, no greetings happy or sad. NOTHING--absolutely--I am all alone. It is, in a word, PERFECT. But alas, it is short-lived. Like the technology of the day. My internet service here via a wireless card, via a modem router broadcasting a weak-assed signal upstairs here to this room through a secure coded signal. Why can't it be like they say? Perfect Fast Always on? Why isn't it? Whose fault is it? Is it theirs for promising it? Or ours for stupidly/naively expecting then, like me, fast superfast connectivity, and then being angry as hell, demanding perfection, in permanence (perpetuity)? Which of course will never, as long as we're alive, BE. I seriously doubt every thing will be fixed in death. I somehow feel that that will be missing something as well. Quite a few things in fact, just to get started.

Tuesday, April 18, 2006

Work In Progress

More Writing For You
I want to put down here some words from a work in progress, enjoy MEMORY BECKONS:

4.17.2006 I WANT YOU...
I want you, you know who you are. I want you, all of you, every single girl/woman I have ever met in my entire life. I want you all. Life is not fair. It will not allow it. But if I had my way, I would have time for each and every one of you, and we would both enjoy it. We would both care and have pleasure and fond memories of every experience we would share.
It wouldn’t all just be about sex, but that would be there. We’d all have that when/where necessary, but it would be more. It’d be comforting, comfortable, for us both. One on one, one at a time, a life that would allow for it, allow for every thing. But life isn’t fair, it won’t allow for it, no, not at all.
Oh, we’d have sex, and it would not be all that spectacular, but it’d be funny and fun and stupid and dumb. Hope is it’d be without Mr. Nasty, the inevitable, the guilt/shame/sickness/disease/mistrust/miscommunication and death. Hope is it’d be without this. But life is unfair. It is always with this, Mr. Nasty.
Life works like this: You’d have sex all of a sudden with someone you’re not particularly attracted’d marry someone you just got used to, and hated, absolutely HATED some of the things she’d pull and continue to do from time to time, just as she’d hate like hell things about you. That’s how it’d be, that’s how it’d go, it just works out that way don’t you know? Life is not fair. That’s just the way that it is.

Monday, April 17, 2006

Lazarus Book Photos

Well, the pictures are slow in coming. I don't know as I'll get to them any time soon. I have work to do this week and it will require some camera work this weekend on a shoot in Ventura I plan to be on. Maybe I'll take my car. Maybe I'll take my mother's. Perhaps I'll just rent one, BuenaVentura is a long way away, and I have things to do before I go, stuff to memorize, and many many people to meet with and help before I go. More Later, ta-tah for now, Space Travelers.

Saturday, April 15, 2006

What I Look Like...On a good day.

This is me on my boat in Singapore. My cabin girl MAI took the photo. She's pretty good with a camera, of course with a few other things too...but this is a family blog and we'll not go there naturally, will we? Well, how do you think families get started? It aint me babe, no, it aint me.

And Here Comes LAZARUS

After The Resurrection
a story by William McKenzie Neal 2.5.92

Lazarus was resurrected from the dead as the story goes by one called Jesus Christ. Now, what happened to Lazarus after he was raised from the dead was not properly explained. With that, let's join the story already in progress and see where we can go with it.
Lazarus was minding his own business in a cave being dead, when all of a sudden Jesus called him forth. The power was overwhelming, as was Lazarus' smell. He needed a bath. He needed new clothes. And, he needed something to eat. Not to mention something to do.
Some folks in the group that had been following Jesus that week, broke off from the crowd and took care of Lazarus for awhile. There was Pete, the carpenter, who smoked quite a bit. There was Lily, the launderer, who so recently quit. There was Simon, the pie man, who wasn't simple at all. And, there was Derry, the nary, a questionable sort.
Pete built Lazarus a house, complete with running water. Lily, the launderer, acquired for Lazarus a whole pack of clothes. There were ties and cummerbunds. There were hats and handkerchiefs. There were even some nice lavender colored terry-cloth socks. Simon, the non-simpleton, managed to rustle up some food goods for Lazarus. Cans of peas; Blackeyed and English. Butter croissants and egg bagels. For dessert, there was a push cart piled high with Napoleons.
Derry the nary tried to oblige Lazarus with gifts too; sexual gifts. But, didn't understand the story. You see, Lazarus preferred Lily. But, the problem with that was, no woman or man in their right mind would have sex, or even date anyone who has been resurrected.
No one wanted sex with Lazarus except Derry. But, Lazarus didn't want sex with Derry. Derry, the nary, who was a man at one time, however, having undergone certain trendy hospital experiments, cannot be considered much of a man or woman now. But, that's besides the point.
Lazarus decided to disappear into the haze. Being indifferent to the sexual craze, he'd go celibate for a while. He figured that it couldn't be too bad.
Years went by. Lazarus stopped writing his friends. His friends stopped writing him. He was lonely. He was depressed. He regressed to old habits. He put on a dress. (Actually it was a kilt, but folks that don't know what a kilt is, call it a dress.)
He picked up his bagpipes and began to play them all around. He would walk into the Highlands without anything on and play and play and play. He would go to Ghirardelli Square with his flat green woolen cap that he didn't often wear and get it full of tossed coins on the ground. This lifted him up a bit.
As far as regular habits went, Lazarus would do the route of doughnut shops and bookstores. He'd make diurnal trips to specialty tea shops in search for the infamous P.G. TIPS. It was the best tea in the world. Unfortunately for Lazarus, no one in the States had gotten the clue.
Lazarus' life was boring. He was getting frustrated. It was time for a trip. To the Southland. It was too cold where he was. Wet too. Maybe some sun was what he needed. Perhaps a tan.
Hamburger joints and soft, loose-fitting clothing greeted Lazarus. It was hot and people were sweating, especially Lazarus. He took a dip and was soothed. He was also gunked. Tar. Huge gobs of it stuck to his feet. It stuck to the sand, and the sand stuck to it.
"What kind of randy place is this?" muttered Lazarus. Finding a turpentine vendor up the beach a ways, he considered himself lucky. Indeed he was. Most wildlife who come in contact with the tar from the offshore oil drillers die.
All of this exercise made Lazarus hungry. He found this yellow and brown colored food joint. They had a burger that was fat. He ordered the giant with the works. He also ordered chili fries, with real shredded cheddar cheese and freshly chopped white onions sprinkled on top. He consumed everything with zeal.
Dessert was provided by a Kosher ice cream place next door. Lazarus ordered a large vanilla soft-ice, with rainbow sprinkles on top.
Lazarus had just about run out of money. He was really broke and did not want his flow of cash to quit. Answering an ad in a local paper, Lazarus went to work at an amusement park scooping up trash.
But, of course, the new source of bucks wasn't enough. He tried to think. He couldn't. He got dizzy. Stumbling into the kitchen, he just barely made it to the sink before throwing up. Luckily he didn't fall. Not like the drunken woman neighbor of his with her cigarette. Falling down over and over again; not once dropping her fiery cancerous carcinogenic stick. It was a Thanksgiving Lazarus would not soon forget. Ironically, the turkey's had it easier. All of their lives to live it up, and then it's over real quick like. No resurrection.
On the freeways sometimes his mind would drift. Could the car? Some sort of mechanical failure? On purpose? Swerve violently from lane to lane, taking as many others with him as possible. Nothing personal of course, just to have some company; reduce the risk of a second resurrection. More work if more were involved. Simple arithmetic.
The last snack Lazarus ever had were these French vanilla ice cream balls, covered in dark, bittersweet chocolate. He wanted just a few, but he ended up having a few hundred. The packages came that way. Lazarus grabbed for one, but in the process, knocked down another. Feeling guilty enough with just the one, he mumbled distractedly in the check out line about the hungry guys back at the house with the poker game.
Lazarus ate all of the bon-bons in one sitting. His stomach bloated with all of the gaseous cow juice. It was half time, and the game on T.V. was a drag. He couldn't even remember who was playing who. He went to bed.
A while later, Lazarus got up. He cleaned his teeth, relieved his bladder of liquid waste material, and went back to bed. Tossing and turning, he couldn't get comfortable. He rolled over once again, and his heart went into cardiac arrest. Lazarus was dead once again.
Yes, so, what'd you think? I like it. It's a perfect WHAT IF? situation. Updated. Today. And yet still the story of then. What happened then...sort of.
Any way, I hope to now make pictures of the book Carmina made and post them. Her art work really should be out here more. I can't understand why this professional art instructor cannot be famous and rich and also my friend who gets me work from time to time as I will employ her too. She's married now or engaged or something, or so I am told...Thank you Joe Jackson.
The story is all about eating. Food. Fuel. Life? Well, the consumption of energy. I guess that's life. Or so as we know it.
The book is on fast food paper wrappings and is in a chicken store box and inside another box like a tomb or crypt, which once carried paper or something. On that cover is a photo of a mayan figurine or something like that. I'm not sure what it is. You'll have to ask me later and I'll have to get back to you on that after I research it or you tell me how ignorantly off I am.
Good Day. The rest of the story plus photos follows.

A Sort Of Introduction

It used to be that we were able to write and write a lot. We don't do that any more and we're not at all certain as to why. Guess real life just stepped in and stomped on all that. Buckyneal speaks here: "Fuck you,Lord Buckly." That's all I've got to say for now. This is annoying how slow the typing is appearing on the screen while I type. Oh well. At least here I am and if it works, if I'm discovered in a cafe some place...well, then, that's okay by me.

Now, here's something I wrote ages ago and is even found on the web at Chuck Taggart's Gumbo Pages which y'all should visit and check out some time:

by William McKenzie Neal

1 teaspoon of salt
1 tablespoon of vinegar
5 quarts of water
7 quarts of Wild Turkey, 101 proof
Mix in diced vegetables of any persuasion. (Diced Flanny Steak optional.) Boil contents till hell freezes over, making sure to trap the steam and whatever liquid there remains in the kettle. Throw the vegetables outside for the dogs. Drink the juice warm.
It wasn't until I got older, much older, that while I was scrounging around in my great-great-great Uncle Manny's foot locker that I found this and tried this horrendous recipe for vegetables. Maybe Uncle Manny lived in more lucrative circumstances. Maybe he grew his own vegetables, and it's why Flanny Steak was optional that he could mix his favorite bourbon in such a giant supply and then throw the vegetables outside. Either that, or he was just a plain out and out alcoholic. Either way I loved the man dearly, and I'm sure his dogs did too.

Copyright © 1985, William McKenzie Neal
Reproduced with permission.

I also have to say there's a book out now, (2 of them actually.), and they were hand made by Carmina Crittenden, and the story is: AFTER THE RESURRECTION, it's the story of Lazarus, as told by me, updated and played in the modern times of what if today, when Lazarus was done up then. Comprende? I'll have to find it and post it here.
For now however, you'll just have to suffer through a true life story via script format from an event which occurred to me on the bus on the way to work some time ago in San Francisco, when I used to live there.
It's called Jesus Terrorist Attack:

JESUS TERRORIST ATTACK Screenplay by William M. Neal

-Based on a True Story-

Fade In:


The Number 22 Muni Bus in San Francisco stops at the corner of 16th and Dolores. Out of the walled off steps outside Mission Dolores walk two Spanish speaking YOUTHS. One boarded the bus. Standing on the top platform, he began to speak to the DRIVER in Spanish, then in English.

I don’t have any money. Can’t I
Board any way?

It doesn’t work like that.
I can’t give you a free ride.
Now get off the bus.

(To the crowd)
Do you believe in Jesus?

A most effeminate MAN-1 near the front of the bus WHINES.

Please, get off the bus. I’m
late for an appointment.

(To Man-1)
Do you believe in Jesus?

From the back of the bus another MAN-2 SHOUTS

(To the YOUTH)
That’s got nothing to do with it.
Now get off the bus. We’ve got to go.

Please. I’m late.

Ask to be late in the name of

(To Driver)
Call the police. You have a phone.
Use it.

I cannot do anything.

Come on. Call the police. Use
your phone. Call the police.

(To the crowd)
Hey, are you going to just let
this guy do this to us?

(To Driver, Crowd)
Do you believe in Jesus? He’s
the only way.

(To Youth)
I’m sorry. Okay? Okay? I’m
Sorry! I believe in Jesus. But
don’t you think that Jesus
wouldn’t want us to be late?

At this, the Youth is taken slightly aback in his Jesus tirade. Then he quickly takes off again. He was high on jackrabbit semen, a volatile concoction, very unpredictable. He had his own mission besides Jesus and it wasn’t saving souls, it was kicking some ass.

(To the crowd)
Do you have a problem? Do you
have a problem? If you have a
problem, then step outside
with me.

The Crowd began to SHOUT.

Jesus Terrorist! Get off the bus!

Yeah. Get off the bus, you damn
Jesus Terrorist you. Damn freak
Get out of here!!

The Youth continued with the rant and was joined in with his (until then,) “silent partner”, in extracting tiny, red covered booklets from their pockets, and waving them at everyone shouting; “Jesus this...”, “Jesus that...”

Finally, the Youth turned around apropos nothing, and got off the bus, shouting more inanities in Spanish and English. Some people CLAPPED and others CHEERED.

OH, thank GOD!

The WOMAN sitting next to Man-1 CHUCKLED at the irony of his utterance.

So, that is how it went. The JESUS TERRORIST ATTACK on board the Fillmore #22 Marina Green MUNI bus in the Mission District, outside Mission Dolores on 16th at Dolores in San Francisco, California. Tuesday, the 3rd of January 1989.

True Story, actually happened, as near as I can remember, exactly like that. I wrote it down as it was happening and after the fact, as the bus lumbered along through the Mission District out to Hunter's Point, near where I worked at a Direct Mail Advertiser at the time, processing bulk mail.

I'll have to get LAZARUS to you some other time. I need to read now and eat and get going. I have laundry to do and a movie to watch...ta-tah for now, space travelers.