Do everything in the Dark book was a 1991(?)novel by author Gary Indiana that recommended adopting alternate hours to the mess of Messalinas in a young man’s apartment building. Is that a go

. Is that a good or does the idea sound like a sexually robotic bathhouse kind of a seeking after a frustrated fuckboy? Sounds like the bright idea of “staying in” on a friday night and playing Tilda

Do Everything in the Dark. As in, partially blind like any animal with an idea to execute…Sounds like the bright idea of “staying in” on a friday night and playing Tilda Swinton being Orlando on the bluetooth and sending the neighbors the message that music makes the soundtrack to our lives despite that : there are miles and miles of sawyering world’s smallest instrumentations we no longer can believe.

And yet and still on a walk in the woods, in a box with a fox, if you can go talkless there floats like an idea , stings like a bee: the blatzing of your entubaed bemused accompanists.

A For Example that:

Wishing three times for your companions is no joke, desire is the high road to where your much maligned friends are waiting, to fit the band back together, rococo belligerent very verbal clatch of ambling office supply thieves. Talking out loudly and reciting the names of things, as on a wide, wide Los Angeles boulevard the cricket sound is the gushing hissing of highways, moody music that gives us movie ideas is a high pitched whine, O, I guess!

Receiving incoming *like cats. After jail, and ten days of prison sounds, and courttalk and judgement and tens of thousands of jolts to my gut fauna from disturbing foodstuffs if one understands how war works you take the beaten path to cease expecting the witchery/ session music of pure pain; Which sidewalk involves you believing in the thickest part of your torso that animals dream, and Madame N cooks better than tortilla soup, and a cafeteria full of salty stock character instructions to extra players that say “ Nobody is forming a posse to take your ratcatching job and to round you up and ratcatch you!”.

Believing you, I before E, defer to you, although your woman’s face looks like a wedge of paint, and dastardly little music is drifting from your cabins, you can hear the groaning of floorboards and bed springs and the opportunity knocking was to WhatwouldWolfgangAmadeusdo? and singalong that the Old folks rollaround upon the floor, the young ones dream up monsters on the porch. It is certain, believe the Eightball author, every Kentucky has as its cave an extensive network of stalagmite condominiums that are too wet and dripping to be repurposed as a stalag internment facility. Except this was ironic: that in that cartoon artist’s latest book titled “Monica” precisely a sacrificial cult of an entire town forms in a cave around a carnivorous human Leviathan.

Clicking keys like the steel wheels on a train to the effect that all the bedside tables and the kitchen aids and the souvenirs from travel in the house all if turned sideways fit as lids to each other forming a kind of christmas train you could ride like a tide out the window.

In the dark. Now it is Saturday might as well be night and feelings best epressed int he form of a silent movie title card that says “The cafe de Paris stands where Yancy Street vanishes in shadowed fowl smiling alleyways in which nobody is shopping, all the young dudes use what they have got, creating no Stranger Dangers, positivity in a movie about mending fences entitled “Drifting”, Tooland Die Ohio, 1923.

In one of the booths sits a couple whose quarrel is conspicuous in a cafe where conflicts are always usually,-at this hour in the afternoon defused behind the purring of a giant contented cat. Public Domain movies sstack, starring Patricia Dean in a Universal Joint. A kind of a yellow steel terroplane on a stroboscopic track running straight through the MIddlegrounds Metropark annoumcing it has got good camber and ball bearings, it’s a pickupping where we left off the last time we talked…memories that drift out of the ether of comic book four colors like a tide of college try, college cliqueishness…like a high tide. Where ? did we leave-offed? We were talking about what in a shopping country could engross us in keeping our eyes peeled for what/what is coming next even if there isnot any music screaming like tea kettles from the American cabin?

Talking about driving with the brakes OFF. We said that for a adult in size and shape the modern Brechtian adequate imagination for danger was staying up late and conducting the experiment about Now what can it mean to our false memories of Bee Gees and the whole exhausted good will of the discombobulated 70’s that adults are lsitening to music so outloud, but lowly, that nobody can tell if the music is playing there, or maybe, only that rattletrap box fan? Asin the past of too many Pabsts and true to life stories hidden in Roald Dahl’s uttermost misanthropic youing adult novels the Twits and the BFG and the Witches

As long as you believe you have the cache of chiseled looking features enough to waste a woman’s time for one more dog day’s afternoon? Then there would not be the need to study anymore single spaced smokey jokey in troches stories out of school about the abuses artists suffered in the offices of Marvel comics in the middle of the 1960’s, would there? Instead of suffering with the young Herb Trimpe the orders to turn Jack Kirby’s characters into pigeon holed gangsters, and police and detective White Heat reenactments…Daniel Clowes, rather. Modern Cartoonist magazine. In which the rabbit is not only a duck is atthesame time minimally an old man and a martyr in an autodefe and a miser and…two strangers under the same blanket in a storm, what the Playwrite said A very delicate monster.

What I have been wishing to say to you…music is not that soundtrack to our lives that studio recorded music using violins and ancient other stringed instruments from the soup ladle of classical music played outside of American outfitters to annoy panhandlers. The music to carry us intact to our memories with our eyes peeled to outre’ notre music played by real live 24 year old fresh regiments

is in horns made out of yellow steel.

Also been wishing to say that if we lose again, and Dogmen succeed in turning back the clocks to some vomitose night in1978 , in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania? Then that seems to me it will only be a fragile kind of a bubble. Because the looks and feel of this country were fixed in design right down to the wheels and the road conditions and the number of prisoners that will be required to clean the auditorium and the etcetera: the whole cast of thousands for the movie, it seems to me. Will be a blue ink etching of not more thousands of aggravated menacers than can be fit on a large size of oval chinese looking china turkey serving plate.

Maybe not much more than an intuition, like the weird take that I heard about King Lear that that was a story about a man who through inattention to simple Old Kentucky Home happenings allowed every potential partner’s worst fears to take over turning them into rioters representing aggravated armed campers? That was not the plot synopsis most of us would say had happened. Swothadhappened was…we thought more of a bad bargain based on a straight line guesstimate of what the future would look like compared to the warlike and settled past. But the man on youtube said C. was schemeing to sow confusion among her rivals when she declined to say how much, exactly, she loved her father. Weird. But if you need to know what-ON my picture of a future Americanaraman bubble will look like was based? It was this logical bubble letter figure:

AFTER MY PUNISHING DRESSING DOWN IN JAIL I FIND while I still believe the height of our powers lies in our abiltity to cross a rock and roll crowd passing as a normally sharkingly reactive, but brotherly indifferent, presently, un-aggravated menace, but yet NOW tonight

today find myself “Hay, Sportsfans”

signally over sensitized to sex, what else? That I cannot be cool there in that crowd and must find an other overly emotional Cordelia to help me. Furious at the way children are being cooked down to the insulted emotions, Me and She will retie our boots on and kick the yellow dogs back! into the sea. Marge Piercy was it? Or maybe, likely it was young Adrienne Rich who said “ I have food for the journey,/my

boots are on time/

on this picnic day to kick the dogs/ down, back,

into the sea .” What computers were for, who said that?

Bless you child Harridans, my Masters of the Universe Indianan municipal magistrate Ancestors made mistakes concerning your case. But busy going nowhere, hay flies, sports just fans and lyrically, lyrically here in one underwhelming of a run on sentnece you can see my ancients of a free and relaxed Satyrs day always acknowledged with a nod and a wink that they were squids waving tendrils out of a conch NOoo

a cowrie Nooo my God we are such useless intelligencers of the real

that really only the nautilus is a shell making gastropod, but

“the left is not coming to kill you” can we agree that the first lines of some of the most aggravated Substacks really supply the words to relay our cooler, by unshakable nature sociable, indifferently cycling, deliverables: the way we feel right now?

China caught you in his talons, but you mustn’t give in. In 1929 you were working on a fabulous Escape From LA motion picture, how did that one go? Yours was entitled Do Everything In the Dark. Mine, and I might send it out here on the soon to be known as Toledo Type Finesse sstack-,

was called We Stole Office Supplies

.