Thee Monkee Armada 101

The Armada is eternal and forever changing, one must never become stagnate, yet one must never forget where one came from. Moving in circles yet growing closer to the heavens we are the dream of Brahma and the perfect creature that mankind was born from in the Snowy lands. Visions of us are what legends are made of. The wise monkey still laughs in the face of adversity. We are reminded in our darkest hour of a legend;

Jupiter issued a proclamation to all the beasts of the forest and promised a royal reward to the one whose offspring should be deemed the handsomest. The Monkey came with the rest and presented, with all a mother's tenderness, a flat-nosed, hairless, ill-featured young Monkey as a candidate for the promised reward. A general laugh saluted her on the presentation of her son. She resolutely said, "I know not whether Jupiter will allot the prize to my son, but this I do know, that he is at least in the eyes of me his mother, the dearest, handsomest, and most beautiful of all."

In order to be free you must access your Monkee Mind; you must leave behind the corrupt hue-man hive mentality. Shed your false humanity and swing from the trees. Inside each of us lurks a beast be it Monkee or Panda, Squirrel or Penguin. You must shed your false mortal coil and recognize your Monkee heritage, remember that we are the descendents of Sun Wu Kong, we come from the same lineage as Hanuman, Thoth, we bring knowledge and light, and the hue-man race was born from our genes, we are the founding fathers of the earth itself. The trees are our kingdom and all the world is our domain, there is nothing we cannot do, nothing we cannot out shine. We are the Vanara who dwell in the midst of the forest of Kishkindha.

530154803

Through a bit of dumb luck and internet wizardry the original Monkee Pages, which we thought were lost forever have been magically  found. So for those few of you who followed us before and wondered where all those hard hitting exposes on the more depraved aspects of Monkee culture have gone! We give them back to you. Although we won't be posting any new items on the old pages it's nice to know that they weren't completely lost out there int he interwebs. Don't forget to visit the new Monkee Pages that we started when we thought we'd accidentally deleted the old one.

2008_1109bnc0001.3

Nine times out of ten the story remains the same, a hundred nightmare villains lined up in a row. I see the pink bicycle people riding through my dreams, 1, 4, 2, 3, the mandala, the undulating, swirling dervish; we are lost in a trance. Death takes no holidays despite what you’ve heard. My thoughts are floating between your moist thighs, your hair smells like my mother’s is that weirder to say or hear? Triumph over the Tempest or the Tempest Triumphs you tell me either way I think we have a name for our two Chinese fighting fish let’s see which one eats which first.  I am not the same person I was sixteen months ago and neither are you. We walk hand in hand on different shores our hearts collide what’s mine is now yours. Sounds silly doesn’t it? But that’s just the way it’s gotta be. A hundred times or more and we still can’t see. I write our names in the sand surrounded them with a heart I don’t use my hands. There is magic in that piss you know, of course you do stupid question…

they howl as though the world were ending,

and we are watching the sky unwinding

and some of our promises were binding up here where our dreams take form

-“Weekend in Western Illinois”

Thinking about the end of the world and Grant Morrison’s run on Doom Patrol. Thoughts fluttering through my mind, due in part to the second cup of coffee and the fact that I haven’t been out in a while. Going a little stir crazy playing Grand Theft Auto 4 and biding my time. It seems I’m waiting on something, but I don’t know what. Perhaps too much Patience is a bad thing.  Thinking about the messages we hide in music and how it relates to graffiti and how books are obsolete. The thought of hard copy is becoming a cringe worthy memory in a generation they will be extinct and libraries will be museums filled with people sitting at computers while the books collect dust on the shelves. I’m thinking about magick (yes with a K), Aliester Crowley and Austin Osman O’Spare, and the works of H.P. Lovecraft; Wondering if my own cryptic musings will ever be regarded in the same way. I’m wondering how long I will be in this weird limbo not really living yet totally alive. Thinking about how good BSG was and how they won’t be able to duplicate it again anytime soon. I have a family reunion coming up and wonder what bit of wisdom I will be able to impart on my little cousins (that still look up to me), in this current mental state. Never have I felt such a gripping hold on my heart and imagination, my bravado seems to have all but left me. Tracing places and spaces in my mind, it would help if I could just get high and drunk for one night. I need it more than you know.

Doompatrol3424dc5

It’s Wednesday; the name comes from the Middle English Wednes dei, which is from Old English language Wēdnes dæg, meaning the day of the English god Wodan (Woden) who was a god of the Anglo-Saxons in England until about the 7th century. Wēdnes dæg is like the Old Norse Oðinsdagr ("Odin's day"), which is an early translation of the Latin dies Mercurii ("Mercury's day"), and reflects the widespread association of Woden with Mercury going back to Tacitus.[i] I’m depressed still, just another day. Nothing seems to make me feel any better. I can’t stop thinking about her. I wonder what she’s doing, (I wonder who she’s doing) I wonder what’s happening over in California. I can’t help it. I thought it would be better once I reached the other side of the country. I thought I would be having fun and forgetting. I thought I would get laid and party with my old friends and everything would be better. I thought wrong.  There’s an old song called “I left my heart in San Francisco”, I have been avoiding using it since it’s so old it’s become somewhat of a cliché now, but it’s apropos now.  

                The only thing I can think about since I have been back is how I am going to get back out there to the left coast, and to her. I know it’s stupid. Even if I made it back tomorrow it wouldn’t be the same, it couldn’t be the same. It’s silly to even think that it could. Nothing is ever the way we left it. Time keeps moving and things change, feelings change. I would love to be able to move on, to find someone else or just be happy alone, but she haunts me. The computer I’m using to type this-she bought me. The camera I use daily-she bought me. The music I listen to, she-hated. Well some of it. Whenever one of the bands we both loved comes in rotation I cry a little. I think of the good times and block out the bad. I imagine that the next time I see her she’ll run to my arms and admit what a terrible mistake leaving me was. I know that will never happen. She’s too stubborn and pig headed to do that even if it were true.

                I wouldn’t either if I were her. After all what do I have to offer any one? Other than a slightly above average penis I have nothing. No job, no home, no future what so ever. I can’t even get a shitty job because I’ve been too busy feeling sorry for myself for the last eight months. I just sit around going back and forth between the television and the computer. Alternating between faking laughter and crying like a baby. I can’t even masturbate any more it just makes me realize how pathetic my life has become. I go out occasionally since I’ve been back home. I listen to friends tell stories of how wild and crazy I once was and I see in their eyes that they hope I will be that way again soon. I thought I would, I hoped coming back to my hoe would be reinvigorating and I would feel the old spark and get my fight back. Instead I just feel eve older and more pathetic than I did when I was sitting alone in Oakland.  I’m trying not to cry as write this. My hands are trembling. I need to eat something but I can’t.

                These days I survive on a steady diet of nothing. I haven’t had much money for booze and I lost my interest in real food some time ago. When I do force myself to eat, it usually McDonalds or some microwave pizza, which tastes like crap. I just shove it down my throat to keep myself alive for another day. I keep a slither of hope alive, but on days like today I wonder why I bother. I don’t think I will ever love or live the same again. I just don’t feel like I could ever trust someone with my secrets again. I don’t feel I could lie in bed and talk to someone the way we did. And the thought of never feeling that way again is breaking me. It’s destroying my will, which I once thought was indomitable. I don’t sleep right,, but I never really did so for me that’s saying something. I’m lucky if I get three or four hours in the morning. I should be job hunting right now, instead I’m typing out another dumb blog that no one will read. If I knew a solution I would have taken it months ago. I just keep typing so that these thoughts don’t completely destroy me.

DSCF0011

There are a lot of things I’m thinking about now-joy and pain, sex and rhythm, and the misogynist temple. The body opens up through the mind’s eye and a million people see the unseen. It’s only been a few days since I arrived back in Winston and I’ve been out and about in the mix for long enough to know that I cannot stay. The Universe has pulled me back to say but a few words and move on. I am after all a machine. I am an irony engine, motivated by the faithful to be a catalyst for change. If you know, what I mean? More “Beautiful Nothing” than, an “Escapist Wizard”. What I pride myself on is being able to know the difference. I scribbled this poem in my notebook when I was drunk at P&M’s the other night (by P&M’s I mean Pat and Margret’s, not Pop and Mom’s).

Deadly Poltergeist, the one to stay tragic, a million cosmonauts live in the damage, the world in of itself was left for those that dare to dream a number of the beast on my 501 jeans. Multitudes of mysterious men walk/talk in their sleep an insult friend; the jungle is thick and lush with cat hairs, fiery bush and Adair’s. The working man is face down in the gutter. Twice removed from Hogarth’s mother. Hogarth/Hogwarts silly girl nothing is ever how it seems, the universe is full of joy and mischief to the Foltoroy. Yom Kippur and Rash-a-Shana the hum of a thousand wings is my ultimate sauna Burning bright embers in the night young maidens in heat take flight Burden by sorrows the child crying, the dreamer awakes-and dies. Tattooed angles of a different kind the misdirection’s of all people behind. More of Fancy Feet of stone/deeper than cleats we remain.

There is an old saying that goes; “how can you go back to the farm, once you’ve seen the lights of gay Perris.” Yet in less than 48 hours God willing I will be back in good old North Carolina. My home and my birth place. I can’t believe it, but this is it ladies and gentlemen, my last blog for awhile. I know, I know, whatever will you do without my adorable musings. For the last several years I have been away from the party life, from going out every night, and I substituted my animal lifestyle for one behind the keyboard. I joined every social networking site I saw and copied and pasted my erratic ramblings across the inter-webs. Now I am off across country (again), and I’m not sure as to when I will be able to set up my desktop next. I don’t particularly care to access my shit from other people’s computers, so you providing my plane doesn’t crash it may be a few weeks or even a few months before I’m settled. Who knows where I will be or what will have happened.  It may be a few days, a few weeks, or a few years. I have to work some things out and figure out where I went wrong. There is a lot that I have been going through mentally over the last few months and hopefully I can work some of it out before I make it back out to the Left Coast... And let it be known I will return. I will not accept defeat. I will not be beaten by California.  I have had a lot of wild and crazy experiences since I left North Carolina. I can’t believe I’m even going back. In the meantime there are a lot of friends that I have missed and that hopefully have missed me. Those of you that give a fuck be ready when my plane touches down, and those of out that have been happy to have me gone, start quaking in your boots. I would like to say thank you to those who have helped me along through the last bit and to my former lover and forever friend who brought me out here. I wish that I would have been a better hustler and more adept to making shit happen. I kind of lost interest after you left and I just gave up. Next time kid.

The universe is weird the way it works. I never expected to make it this far. When I was 16 my high school teachers all agreed I would be lucky to reach 18, but I proved them all wrong by reaching 31. I have fought tooth and nail to get as far away from those days as I could. The pain of loss, and rejection, has driven me, now they drive me back home. I would laugh but only to keep from crying. The sweet sticky California bud is rolling round my mind now guiding my hands across the keyboard as it has so many late nights blogging till I fell asleep. The future is uncertain, but then again hasn’t it always been. Years ago when I stepped out of prison on the faithful mountain in Ohio I had no clue as to where I was going to end up. Since then I have lived in New York, Atlanta (twice), St. Louis, and now Oakland, California. And I did it with the help of friends, and people who loved me. I hope to see the rest of my days the same. I feel something is pulling me backwards though, as if I need to be home to set a few things right The Universe doesn’t like unfinished business after all. So until we speak again-keep up the Monkee Business.

Scan002