fourteen.

today marks fourteen years since i started tattooing.
yeah.
fourteen hand-cramping, back-bending, interminable years.
in a row.
tattooing has been good to me,
and tattooing has been bad to me.
really.
i'm just sayin'.
almost every lasting interaction in these last long
hard, cold, lonely fourteen F*ing years
has originated through the tattoo shop.
or, at least, one tattoo shop or another.
i mean,
i don't really go anywhere else,
so meeting people is confined to the studio hours.
ugh.
tattooing.
after all this time,
it is arguably the worst thing that ever happened to me,
and also, inarguably, the very best thing too.
would i have made the friends i have without it?
one or two, maybe;
but,
would i have met my (x)wife without it?
....no.
would she have been able to meet someone else,
and then be able to afford leave me without it?
.....also no.
then again,
if we're being fair and honest-
i kinda had that one coming.
at least, if getting even is what we're getting at.
F* tattooing.
it provides with one hand,
and it takes with the other.
hell,
i haven't spoken to my first client,
my old friend, mitch, in years.
damn.
it's bitter, and it's sweet,
it's salty, as in: harboring a grudge.
and it's salty, as in: dripping sweat, and dripping tears.
there's a balance to all of it, neighbors.
for the first time in fourteen years,
i almost forgot that today is the day.
it was at once a relief and a quick burst of panic.
did i miss it? did i care?
no, and yes, it turns out.
tattooing is not the love of my life,
that's just the truth of it.
however,
it IS my bottom b!tch,
and i'm gonna always hit that.
***********
how'd i celebrate?
yard work.
i blew leaves into the neighbors' yards;
i burned leaves in piles;
i raked leaves across the grounds of this Folk Life & Liberty Fortress;
i used a dull maul to battle-bash wood to bits;
i stacked the bashed bits;
i fertilized plants;
i acidified the soil around my blueberry bushes.....
basically,
i labored along in the woodsly goodness like a serf,
nowhere within sight nor sound of a tattoo.
and it was pure bliss.
when it was all over,
i activated twenty-two dumps on my face.
teleport:

word up, friends.
a fat faceful of filthy sesame-oiled diapers,
filled to the tippity-tops with all the delicious i could handle.
it went to eleven, twice,
and i let it.
packing up and folding over those dumplings is relaxing.
there's something to show for it,
until you eat them.
like those leaves,
the piles were high until they burnt to a blackened ashy dust heap.
that's the way it goes.
it all just seems so damned amazing...
...until it isn't.
ugh.
-
dear tattooing,
     somehow,
     you win again.
                  xoxo
                      love,
                         albie
-
it's all really happening,
all of it, all the time.
and as much as i complain about the way it's unfolding,
i'm still grateful to be a part of it.
the other options just don't seem as appealing;
never quiet, never soft.....

dumps.....omega level.

filling?
first thing in the morning,
you duders know i was up and at them,
slicing leeks,
mincing cabbage, crumbling tofu,
shredding carrots and celery, toasting sesame seeds,
babying some spinach,
and crunching up some mung bean threads.
uh huh.
i make that sh!t work...
it's the insides, y'heard?
and it's what's inside that really matters.
all the rest is just dough.
filling the order for flavorful filling is what i do.
teleport:

a big bowl of brown and beige?
yeah!
it's got those liquid aminos, too.
haha.
c'mon, it's really just tamari, trying too hard.
awwwww.
-
anyway,
we stuffed 'em and rolled 'em and boiled 'em and fried 'em.
and then we set 'em up to look so sexy.
check the teleport:

you all are just jealous of these dumps on your face.
that's definitely a thing.
scallion blooms?
yep.
we did that too.
super-fancy unnecessaries?
always.
and we all know it's scallions that make the sauce so damned good.
oh,
don't even think for a second that we didn't make two kinds of sauce.
c'mon.
we aren't like that.
i mean, just one sauce?
no way.
that's what poor people do.
haha.
true story.
however,
ginger, garlic, sriracha, chipotle ho'sauce, smoked hot paprika,
black pepper, oily sesame seeds and a splash of soy?
that's that expert business for heating up the second bite.
obviously.
it's thick.
that means you add the juicy one, and let those scallion bits catch the heat.
smart.
we know how to make a meal into something special.
that's another thing.
***********
time traveling into the future?
yep.
that's also a thing.
and we do that. too.
there's a system to it,
with added hot fire and explosions to it,
that make it possible to do it the way we do it to it.
no.
really.
and when we span time, all together,
it's altogether greater than if we went at it alone.
honestly,
it's unfolding faster than we could fold dumplings,
and it's opening up in spiralled circles in every direction.
we pinched our pouches shut,
but the evening blew apart in front of us.
that's big bang-type jauns.
outwards and upwards forever and ever.
with full bellies for fuel,
and fully intending to never return back the way we came;
never quiet, never soft.....

yeah.

....and then,
when it seemed like everything was already at a low point,
this happened:

yuuuuuuuuup.
stay ugly, stay dope.
it's a thing.
there's just no denying that a costume change
can be a character assassination waiting underneath
the waxy plastic weave of a cheap wig and a hat.
transforming us into a pair of A*-hole twins?
yeah.
we doo-doo that playing-dress-up-type sh!t.
of course we do.
why?
neighbors,
because expert recognize expert.
we know how to use what's there
and make it rad by taking the level of terrible to eleven.
the worse it gets the better we know what to do with it;
never quiet, never soft.....

n.g.f.l.

.....i don't care about that.
what?
about what?
oh.
right.
sorry, neighbors,
i'm repping that in medias res jauns over here.
right in the middle.
you know.
that's where i want to be.
dead center.
spot on.
right inside.
and it's sorta happening.
ever so slowly.
twisting, coiling, entwining, vining, reaching around-
i'm all wrapped up in some real life sh!t.
i mean,
there are hard styles,
and then there are hard styles.
y'all can keep your ratchets,
i'm choosing the wrench.
woooooooord.
oh, i'm definitely taking the path of greatest resistance.
i prefer impossible odds for getting even,
and i only want the things i have to earn.
there are far easier, accessible, safer ways to get it,
but they just don't count nearly as much.
i want exactly what i deserve.
really.
kids,
when it comes to something for nothing?
not for nothin', but i don't care about that.
see?
we got you all caught up.
now,
it's time to move forward;
stepping out into fall's flora and it's steady decline into grey.
the woodsly goodness has the things in it i like.
that's a thing.
it's where i do what i do.
what am i doing?
y'mean besides doing the best i can?
what else would i be doing?
don't be dumb.
***********
ugh.
duders,
since when am i considered nice?
i mean, sure,
maybe in private i get a little bit nicey-nice.
but in general, essentially, on the whole?
no.
i'm just not buying into it.
what?
oh,
i'm not saying i'm intentionally mean-spirited,
malicious, or awful.
i'm not actually an A*-hole after all.
c'mon.
i may be a miscreant of grievous mischief,
a wanton wordspitting glib and guileful fun-maker-
but it's just that.
y'know?
all in good fun.....for me at least.
i give as good as i get,
and i pay what's owed,
but i'm not giving something for nothing,
anymore than i'll accept that as payment for unrendered services.
if you've earned it, it's not being nice.
it's doing right.
nice isn't allowed unless it's a side-effect of truth-telling.
what really gets me worried is the idea that nice guys finish last.
and i think that's a real thing.
i'm not trying to act as the agent of my own undoing, guys-
i'm looking for a come-from-behind victory;
a surprise ending;
a plot twist;
a late-day, last-minute, midnight reversal of fortune.
second place isn't gonna cut it, either.
the universe is cruel,
but nature always wins...
and nice has nothing to do with it;
never quiet, never soft.....

silver medal.

maybe i was supposed to be a giant?
i think that's real.
yeah.
otherwise,
why would i have these great big grabby glovely ones
hanging out at the ends of my wrists?
they're obviously for someone who was intended for greater things.
like, just maybe,
all the goodness designed to diffuse throughout an entire
oversized complete person got pulled and pooled by gravity
into just the ends of my arms.
i mean, c'mon-
it would explain why they're so damned long,
and why there're spidermitt monsterpaws dangling at the tips.

no?
but on the really real-
these twin choking jokers,
and their wide-palmed spans,
and their starving stickly stalks?
yes.
they're made for taking,
and for talking,
and for tempting, teasing, tickling, tracing, trapping.....
and most of all,
for devouring whatever they touch.
i'm serious-
my hands have teeth.
metaphoric masticators of all sorts of knots.
from sore backs to messy entanglements,
i've got ten long, gnarled, knobby fingers ready to bite into all of it,
and get a taste of what's in store for us.
ugh.
it's not easy,
not letting them loose to hunt up the things they want.
they're just so hungry.
i mean it.
and there's parts on parts on parts,
so much prey and so much pain
and so many pleasing pokes and prods and pulls and pushes.
neck-napes;
back-smalls;
hip-handles;
those are the part and parcel of what i'm prestidigitatingly digesting.
c'mon.
that's expert.
anyway,
it's all about the hands, kids.
all the best secrets are always in the hands.
true story.
***********
ummmm,
but, like,
just HOW bad at girls am i?
holy F*ing sh!t, neighbors-
i'm the best at being the worst.
and what's more,
i'm taking the blue ribbon first prize trophy
for being a tarnished soured silver second place finisher
in the highest concentration of consecutive instances.
huh?
oh, stop it....
i go for it.
y'know, the gold.
just like it says on that heavy hand up there^^^^
it's just that i'm such a sucker for all those interesting individuals
and tremendous brunettes that i forget myself.
and that's no joke.
ugh.
yeah, i'm kinda caught up in that sh!t.
i go for it every time.
the good news?
i get just a little closer every time,
and i never ever ever give up.
failing is fine.
hell,
i've been doing that like a professional for decades.
it's quitting that's where i draw the line that can't be crossed.
-
now,
what do all of y'all know about hard styles?
yeah, i'll bet.
but on the ones?
mine are harder.
i promise.
hmmmm?
c'mon.
just relax, a little baby bit, dear-
i'm talking very specifically about the general theme
of being brought low by aiming too high...
it's kind of a sure-fire way to be certain to always miss the mark.
huh?
take it easy.
i'm right on target.....for coming up short.
what?
yeah. you're probably right.
i suppose pouting IS unbecoming of a warrior poet.
it's all really happening though.
that's the whole point.
jeez.
i just always want more.
i mean,
that's the objective, isn't it?
never less, never easy, never enough;
never quiet, never soft.....

getting fresher, going harder.

duders,
i think i'm onto something.
hmm?
yeah,
a little special secret sumthin'-type jauns,
for all our collective faces.
well,
all the faces without chocolate, wheat, or nut allergies.
those faces have to kinda F* off this time around.
but, for real, neighbors,
i made a new thing.
and i'm pretty sure it's an expert addition to the roster
of baked-up betterments for these barbarian battlements.
no?
hold on, kids-
before you get bored and act dumb,
check the teleport:

flaky pastry pockets?
yeah.
pie crusts cut into small circles, folded over, and pinched shut,
wait,
like dessert dumplings?
wordimus prime!
that's exactly F*ing right.
chocolaty coconut candy filling on the left,
chocolaty walnut crumble filling on the right,
with drizzle and dips in dark chocolate respectively.
uh huh.
i'm taking the treats game up another 'nother level.
i rep eleven as the baseline for being better than the best.
is it working?
ummmm,
i dunno, actually.
i'd like to think so,
but i might actually be too smart for that.
awwwwwwwwwwwww.
but,
those little two-bite crescents are damn good tasting, anyway.
**********
there's no question i'm forever bad at girls,
but i'm unrivaled at being good at people.
and when girls are being themselves,
they're dangerously close to being people.
yup.
and the way i interpose myself between the overacting reactions
of everyday people and the overreactive actions of a self-propelled
active participant in really-real hard styles life?
yeah.
i'm at my absolute most proficient.
when there are responsibilities to assume,
i'm good for it,
but when there's worsts to assume?
i'm made for it.
i speak fluently in the tongue of true terribility.
yeah.
that's a thing.
real life documentarianism is what i'm doing.
i promise not to rewrite history to make the victors seem heroic,
or the losers look like villains.
the good guys don't usually win.
rules is rules;
never quiet, never soft.....

fall food.

apples?
yes.
you can't like fall and hate apples.
they're pretty much the introductory big fun fruit
for all your autumnal excellence.
y'know?
and it's currently fresh, ripe cranberry season, too.
that's a winning combination if ever there was one.
so,
if we add in some oats and some brown sugar and all kinds
of mapley cinnamony buttery goodness,
it seems likely that all of it, together,
in one place,
at the same time,
will be totally expert.
actually, neighbors,
it's an assured outcome,
once you factor in all of the super-sweet activation
that the applied appliances and sciences that blow up
and bust moves inside of my Folk Life test kitchen .
seriously.
don't believe me?
really?
what are you?
an A*-hole?
fine, be like that....
but first just check the teleport:

i mean, c'mon, right?
it almost looks healthy,
what with all that streuselly crumb business on top.
uh-huh.
cranberry apple bread.
that's what's happening.
and it tastes way less good for you than it looks.
because it tastes really really mutha-flippin' good.
for realsies.
***********
harder and harder and harder?
sure.
it just seems to go that way.
that's a thing.
i'm just sayin',
since when has any of it been easy, anyway?
not usually.
at least,
not where i'm from,
or where i'm at,
or where i'm headed.
i've got a trajectory, kids,
an overarching path that unfolds directly from the frying pan
and immediately downwards,
into the fire.
yeah.
when you are engulfed in flames,
it's hard to think about the bigger picture,
or how that glow warms up and enlightens your surroundings.
.....so there's that.
and also,
all of it is always really happening all the time anyway.
pyrolytic erosion is real.
slowly but surely,
sustained heat abrades and erases the features,
and diminishes the integrity of whatever is exposed to it.
that's the truth.
stand too close to the hottness,
and you'll definitely wear down and out.
dwindling?
yeah.
i think that's how it works.
more combusted bustedness;
never quiet, never soft.....

skipping.

Perfect Fall Days are here.

a lot of rain over a short period means

that the foliage has mostly fallen,

and what's left is yellow and brown.

nobody ever really wants to look at the grey skies framed
by trees that look like a bunch of sad old bananas.

and that means that there's nobody around,
no traffic, no tourists, no congested shops and streets,
and plenty of open spaces to see the world opening upwards-

and that's expert.

real fall times also mean that the air is getting crisply sharp and snappy.

uh huh.

sweaters and scarves and hats and all of that are back in full effect.

yeah.
for serious,
i'm pretty excited to get bundled back up,

and hide a whole lot of the awkward angles i'm composed of

under layers of warm woolen wraps an' that.

the sound of leaves rustling in the breeze almost makes the wind
seem sorta tolerable.
but only just sort of.
there's real life out there in front of us,
and under us,
and all around us,
and i'm pretty sure that it's becoming a season wherein
all the better parts and better people are surrounding us on all sides.
that opens the door for Folk Life fusiliers to spit hot fire down
with lightning-striking viking verbose virtuosity
that we've come to know so well.
y'know,
it's like an enfilade of expertism.
i think so, neighbors.
firing lines between the lines of written words,
battering and beating and bludgeoning them all
into shapes and sounds that resemble
worthy words and totally true stories about what's going on.
that is,
if there's anybody paying attention.
stories are for other people,
the spirits and memories of what's inside these clasped hands;
these clenched teeth;
these shut eyes;
the close kept savagery of the way it all fits together...
otherwise,
i'm only doing it all for myself,
and i already know what my secret heart holds in store.
y'know?
yeah.
i thought you might.
***********
oh, yeah...
the fair ended the other day.
i didn't even go for the last day.
long nights, hard times, harsh words, lost tempers,
and bad feelings spoiled it the night before,
and it spread out and into the next morning, day, and night.
hard styles know no bounds.
it just felt rotten, and looked stupid,
and really, it sort of was.
it's over and done with at any rate.
bye bye.
see you next year:

anyway, i'm sorry, friends.
it just doesn't ever get any better.
there's only more of all of this.
it's never easy,
but it's a whole helluva lot better than nothing;
never quiet, never soft.....

crashing.

wood.
i got it.
y'got me?
oh, i know you do.
i need to be warm, neighbors.
i mean,
i'm only human, after all;
and for as warm-blooded and hot-headed,
and fire-spit spiteful as i may be,
my fingers and toes are pretty much totally benumbed,
because it's always colder inside the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.
that's a thing.
i mean,
manual dexterity is a must if you're into touching....
and i'm alright with admitting that i crave contact,
and that feels are my favorite part.
oh, i know,
feeling and feeling and feelings,
the senseless and the sensible and the fifth sense or whatever.
as much as i may want to,
there's no point in putting my palms where they aren't wanted,
or with manhandling anything if i can't tell what's happening.
i've got lifelines and thumb-wars and pinky promises
all lined up for whatever comes next,
but it doesn't mean a damned thing if i can't close my fist around it
and hold onto what's here.
what?
yeah.
maybe that isn't exactly clear.
so?
the point is,
i got a lot of firewood delivered,
and it's gonna warm me twice an' that.
you know the routine.
check the teleport:

word.
cords, kids.
that's what's up.
good news,
the very instant it got delivered,
it got soaked under a storm of rainy daylong deluge.
lugubrious and waterlogged and totally saturated with hard styles.
*
what the F* is sleep?
hmm?
sleep is for weak wimpy mincey minky mashmouth diaperbabies.
i don't hang out with that sort of thing.
instead,
i'm up at all hours,
and i'm involved in actively acclimating myself to even longer nights,
and ever-more hardened styles.
except i never ever actually get all that used to it.
uh-huh.
that's real.
so instead i stay up as long as i can,
and maximize the minutes to make them matter more.
it's not easy,
but i guess it has to happen.
right?
my cold hands may mean a warm heart,
but i need a warm bed to make 'em worth a sh!t.
an empty bed is the coldest one,
and an empty hand can be a helping hand,
or it can be a wave goodbye.
it'll take more than mittens to save these days;
never quiet, never soft.....

do you like waffles?

early morning bombardments?!
expert.
up and at 'em, secret super-surprisey,
extra-sunrisey,
wide-awakeful,
and awaiting a wonderful woman...
who showed up with a hot cuppa tea.
huh?
i dunno.
what the heck is arriving empty-handed?
(she also brought me brand new black tights;
that's a thing. i needed 'em. she got me 'em, nice!)
how did i find such a good one?
i kept my eyes open.
that's it.
what else would i do, really?
i cultivate coincidences,
and i cross my fingers that active participants cross my path.
raw uncut pure animal magnetism it isn't,
but,
over time,
the overlaps all converge for a good morning.
sooo,
y'know what happens when i have a.m. company?
oh.
well,
if you've ever visited in the morning,
then you probably do know all about it.
but,
if you've been a nancypantsed weak sauce diaperbaby
and stayed in bed at your own home in the early times,
then let me let you know what's up.
i show my appreciation for the ones who make an effort.
all you've ever gotta do is just show up.
real talk.
check the breakfast-type teleport:

waffles?
F*ing right, neighbors.
coconut and oatmeal and brown sugar and sour cream-ish,
all stirred up into one extra-buttery batter.
they get caramelized on the outsides like that.
that's also expert.
believe it.
cranberries and cinnamon and pecans all maple-glazed,
on top of grade B extra-thick maple hottness,
and a snowy blast of powdered confectioners action.
word.
i doo-doo that breakfast of champions sh!t,
but only for the good ones.
so, like, just how rad did they taste?
c'mon.
what are you?
an A*hole?
they were completely mutha-flippin' delicious.
obviously.
as if i was gonna make 'em suck sh!tballs,
and underimpress the bombardier in my kitchen.
no way.
duders,
i am really grateful for the few folks who
participate in this effed-up Folk Life i'm living.
the least i can do is make some kind of treats for 'em.
y'know?
woodsly goodsly activation.
that's what i want.
***********
oh,
and i tuned-up one more falafel last night.
because i couldn't resist.
yeah.
teleport:

yep.
hard styles surround me.
stump-creatures in light jeans,
and so much huntery camouflage,
and all of the dental hygiene you'd probably expect
from all of those wide-bottomed thick-browed cave-dwellers.
the fair, on a saturday night,
is a harder style than you'd expect.
a lot harder.
still,
i went, and ate,
and got turned around and around, and a little bit detoured,
on the roads that roll down the long way home.
that's true.
i traveled the starlight expanses of secret mountain passes,
for longer than i'd expected, in places and spaces i rarely visit.
it wasn't that bad,
but it wasn't exactly what i'd intended.
time-traveling only moves in one direction,
even when you've got to turn around and backtrack
along the paths you've taken on purpose or by accident.
it doesn't stop when you do,
and it all keeps really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

feel awful?

i did it.
yes.
i did.
what did i do?
i did what i set out to do.
what?
oh, well, for starters,
i activated another 'nother feel awful falafel friday.
yeah.
that's a thing.
check the fee-awesome-then-feel-full-type teleport:

yeah.
a couple more of those.
that left side one has a whole mess of kalamata olive meats,
with their tinny salty wet selves.
pretty much an elite addition to eating the same thing every day for a week.
and that other one?
with those kernels of sweet corn?
c'mon.
if there's secret extra add-ons available,
i've gotta get 'em in me.
*
and just to take night in a direction we might not have expected,
i repped a little flashback to yesteryear with my dudes.
for real.
remember the activation society?
well,
it's still around, it seems.
carlos and austin and ted and i got expert
on some fairtime foods, and fairtime fun, and fire-style works.
word up, neighbors.
twenty minutes of nonstop redneck flashlight-and-torch style
low lying explosions in the sky directly over our heads
and right before our shrapnel-dodging faces?
the fair is a strange place at night.
just sayin',
creatures who'd otherwise evaporate in daylight
come oozing out of their warrens and burrows to stare at the lights
and sniff the smells, and be a large part of the cause of the smells.
jeez.
it's gross, but i guess it's necessary.
without them, we'd just be us, y'know?
*
and i had one more falafel,
because feeling awful is measured in all forms of pain,
from stomach-aches to damaged self-esteem.
teleport to full-fledged functional awfulness:

real talk,
i probably should've eaten even more.
because too much, taken too far, is the only way it has to go...
lucky for my butt and guts,
i was already having a sh!t-salad sandwich of a time
before i ever entered the gates.
how expert is that?
hmmm.
feeling awful was the goal, after all,
and i totally did that.
hard.
yeah.
i follow the rules i've enacted,
and i obey the decrees that worthy warrior poetry dictates.
it happens,
with or without us;
never quiet, never soft.....