There are possibly too many thoughts in my mind to completely make sense of this. Sometimes I hide behind the operatic title of writer. That word doesn’t really exist. You can be a writer or practice being a writer but the moment you stop writing that’s it. You’re living, which is something you cannot do when you are writing. This is not exactly my thought. It was a present along with an introduction to Mr Mike Tyson from a writing teacher at a university in Minnesota who was fighting for equality because publicly, she didn’t want penises in her life. Why was I different? We were both sportsmen.

Such a woman. I could talk about my crushes on amazingly wonderful athletic women I have known. The absolute poetry of their bodies. I remember being on a bicycle ride with my daughter’s brother and we ended up at the stadium to watch the Athletics. There was a girl participating in some serious track and field discipline who was stretching her lats by simply hanging by her hands. Both the boy and I were absolutely stunned at the picture of this girl stretching her absolutely spectacular human body. The coach was a woman and smirked as she chased us away. But she did not deny what we saw.

I so like animals. I so like people who will allow their bodies freedom to stretch. Do we want the wild animals roaming the fields and the forests? Do we want people with complete physical freedom, more monkeys than man, to be who they are? Or should we lock them into a cage of stoicism and feed them really bad narcotics to numb their off hours but allow them to wake up in enough misery to require movement the next morning?

What do we do with these bodies? If you are raised in a world where your programming demands that you mutate into an extremely unhappy creature who cannot quite get the hang of the fact that there is no physical freedom in this prison they have put us in, what do you do but go insane? And what is insanity in the modern world? Depression followed by alcohol abuse, cigarettes, bad food and then you are just cultivating the sickness.

This is a body Renaissance for me. My legs have been bad for a very long time and suddenly, exactly with the outrageously unexpected results of my gardening efforts this year, I’m dancing. I don’t mean metaphorically, I mean I am dancing.

Yesterday, the idea popped into my head that I wanted to go outside and bring some music with me. I know most of you would never even consider walking into a garden without your device giving you information or entertaining you or being ready to distract you from reality at a moment’s notice. I understand that modern people do not know how to live without an electronic device. And I am dedicated to mine as these words right now are attesting to.

 I make no excuses. I use my device as a timer to tell me when I should water or do something in the process of watering. I actually have timers reminding me of a particular diet I’m shooting for that I believe will allow me the energy to do what I need to do. And there’s a telephone and I get help from my Wagner brigade of alcoholics. This crazy ragtag group of conscripts who just happened to be a crack team, part of the pun, who could probably get the job done if you could get them to shut up and stop smoking long enough to do it.

But I usually do all this happily with the voices in my head and the voices outside of my head both good and bad. Honestly, I didn’t need Quincy Jones’ big band backing my Sinatra / Elvis lip syncing performance. But I just had to know what my garden was like with a soundtrack because I truthfully have never used it before.

What the hell, I’m going to try not to be here forever and get to the point, which is pretty serious business and not nearly as much fun as writing about idle thoughts and remembrances and how wisdom creeps in with the years. But let’s chuck this paragraph and let me hear that song just one more time. Truthfully, any of the music anywhere from the last few weeks that have made it into the utopian are worthy of a replay. But Frank closed the show and brought the house down and I still haven’t gotten over it yet.  

Phoebe Blue

I know, I thought I was going to go straight to the Frank chart but I went shopping instead and found this gem  with a pretty sparkling band, no sound mixing and Phoebe with the mic. Completely disinterested rich white kids dressed really well and ignoring a pretty well played chart. That’s the music business as I remember it. Good luck Phoe.

Okay so here’s the picture. I got it in my head but I should dance this song because how do you not move to Quincy’s chart? Not just Quincy’s chart, but that band. Man, what kind of effort did these people go to to put together a band for this Sinatra session. Will we ever see the likes of this again? What a thing to lose to the electronic revolution. Shameful waste if we truly quit musical instruments because it’s easier to play with our telephones.

I was holding my comfort Stone. What is a Comfort Stone? We will talk about it in the utopian. But I also had my device which, if it did its job, would hold on to the public internet signal allowing Quincy’s music to flow into my headphones. This whole thing was in my head. The only thing that was out in public was my body electric singing to the sun. 

And my plants. Because they were the audience. And that was part of it. I knew I had my groove on. For some reason, the legs decided that they had it in them and we found the groove. It’s an interesting stage to negotiate because like most un landscaped situations, no two steps are ever really the same. And then there was the music and then there was my body deciding that it could do a moment of Elvis. Can I really dance like Elvis? No, but I look like a geriatric head case who might try to dance like Elvis. If this is my league however, I’m going to the playoffs this year.

The problem was that when you truly strike Elvis poses in time to the music and you truly ask your body, your whole body to get physical with the beat, you’re bound to do something that disallows that device from catching the signal. And it took me four takes. I was a little despondent with the first one because there was that pristine perfection of a first time. And then there was the second time it happened and I let my anger slip and my mood drop. I decided it had to do with the hand position that I was holding my device in. The more movement, the more likely I was to touch the screen in such a way that’s something that happened and the connection would be lost. I told myself to focus on the Tai chi of my left hand and demand to retain complete control of my movements so as never to disturb the grip on the device.

The third time really took it out of me. My left hand was good, I was still able to find the rhythm and do the song, I was hitting the reasonable marks on what I had established for myself as a stage the first two attempts and I felt I was doing pretty good. But then Elvis required a windmill to shoot it over to the horns and the guitar solo. I decided that my trees were Quincy’s band banging hard, my audience was the boxes of food and a little group of flowers in the front row were teenage groupies for me to waive my dick at.

The windmill pulled the ear plugs out of my ears and the whole world stopped. This time, I couldn’t get angry. I laughed and laughed. I laughed at the folly of man. I laughed at my own inability to do a simple job. This was so stupid and I was tired already. Dancing is not an easy job and it certainly is not an easy job if it’s the spirit moving you out of the blue for the first time in 5,000 years or however long I’ve been ill. I hung a towel over my shoulders like James Brown exiting the stage. I had gone the distance and failed. I just couldn’t give anymore. I trudged towards my house laughing still. What a funny world. What irony. What pathos.

And then I asked myself why the hell I was going home. It was an absolutely beautiful day and I was in my garden and felt like dancing. Why should I go back in the house if all I felt like doing was dancing? Quincy. Hit it.

That was yesterday. What was all the dancing from? Too much kinetic energy. Too many local people demanding my attention and following me around waiting for money. Дай мне денежки дай мне денежки. This is the sound of the Russian chicken. It has a distinct cackle and it says only these words. It says these words with every muscle in its body because it is being fed a diet that leaves It In perpetual nervousness and it is generally disallowed even a decent cock to keep it warm.

Give me money is the translation if you didn’t know that.

We have Uzbeki everywhere. They are called цыгане, gypsies. At one point they were as unloved as the Jews in Nazi Germany. Them, the Jews and the homosexuals were a pretty good group of jukes that would be better off eliminated systematically and with the help of industry and chemicals. Or guns. They never did challenge us to a baseball game. They would never actually agree to wager with their own bodies. They liked to wager with guns. As long as there are guns, nobody needs any of this talking shit. As long as there is power nobody ever has to have one moment of rationality and we can stay in our dementia untouched forever.

So that was yesterday which was Shabbos where I put the world of Christianity out of my mind for a while. I leave the gentiles behind and with the exception of them playing with the limits of Twilight with their cars on Friday night, again refusing to put their bodies on the line for their fight and only using weapons that made them feel more powerful and substituted for their genuine lack of penises.

The stench lingers. Even my walk in the garden this evening that inspired me to finish this report had that lingering stench in the air. It never really goes away, the stench. It’s not even like a funny stench like oh, that pile of shit over there really has a smell to it. Shit is organic. Shit is natural. The stench that they bring to the world is not natural. It’s just the stench of poison. Poison gas. These people live and worship poison gas. They are absolute narco men for poison gas. And every time there is a failure in their marital bliss, which is coming with the change in the wind, they are going to have a need to jump into the car and drive somewhere for their relief. I don’t know the male or female that he drives to find. He could get a blowjob right across the street from his man there. Is it a teenage boy? Is he sponsoring somebody like a good Russian should?

Because basically it’s an illegal production factory. They run their trucks out of there all the time and they have an enormous amount of shipping waste to get rid of and send to the landfill every week. None of this bothers them. None of this bothers them at all. They are busy with their business. They are making money. They are making enough money to live in a ramshackle house in the middle of nowhere in a neighborhood full of skells and pronounce themselves winners because they have managed to make enough money to buy all of their food from the supermarket. They kill everything on their land for the aesthetic beauty of desertification and then raise bees who then demonstrate why Russia is a parasite state by needing to find all of its food elsewhere.

There was an evening and then there was a morning. When I woke up on Sunday morning I saw that it was about 4:00 a.m. . That’s about first light. We put that in the Utopian every week. What is first light on Sunday morning? That’s when the world starts.

In a perfect world, I probably just get up and walk outside or walk around a little bit. Actually, I probably need to go to the bathroom and that’s why I woke up. Or God talks loud to me these days and he said first light is first light. And if it wasn’t God, it was a reader who believed I was talking from God and they reminded me with their own alarm loudly. Whatever the Providence was, it was Sunday morning at 4:00 a.m. and I needed water from the well.

I technically needed water. I ran out during one of my feeding frenzies. The food was great by the way. So the fact that I have a steel lid on my 60-year-old well that makes a tremendous amount of noise if simply dropped onto the concrete pedestal, I don’t know whether it was a mistake or I was angry. But gosh, that is an awful lot of noise at 4:00 in the morning on Sunday. There’s also a metal bucket that has to go down the well to get water and it has to be picked up and put down and you try not to hit the walls too many times on the way down. Are these Kung Fu movements?

And of course I needed a bite to eat. During my period of not being able to move around too much, one of the definitive reasons to actually have to get up and move was a necessity for food. If you’re up, you might as well get some food because you’re going to be down for a long time. So probably I wasn’t hungry because mobility allows me to eat whenever the hell I want without so much forethought so that beautiful b flat from the lid of my pot was just pure happenstance at 4:00 in the morning. I don’t want to disturb my neighbors when they are trying to rest heading into their religious Sunday when the world is pure and everyone thanks God for their lives.

And that was it. I don’t specifically remember hearing any audible complaints. There were no stray fuck you Americaners or something like that. I do get an occasional пошёл на хуй but how would you expect to live in Belarus without a few of those, right? That’s just texture. 

I mean we’re men, right? We’re tough guys. Some people don’t really like to play with men because sometimes things get rough. Sometimes it’s better to just go hide under your mother’s skirts when things get real at the front. 

But frankly, if my watch was finished, I was free to hit the sack and frankly I really did want some more sack Time. I had found The Sweet spot. It wasn’t just the dancing. I was fidgety all day. Maybe it was the pasta or maybe it was the nervousness of the women or maybe it was the season or maybe it was just my giddiness at being able to walk and getting better. But I worked out with a sword, I worked out with a baseball bat, I was up and down all day eating and moving. I didn’t work. But I walked and walked and looked and thought and danced and took stances and practiced my swings. It was a workout day. A meditative workout day in nature. Just dancing for God as God made me.

And then I woke up at 6:00 and walked out into my garden and suddenly it was time to explain. Did I record it? No. I didn’t film it and I didn’t do it on tape. I don’t even think that I could repeat it word for word. Maybe I could or maybe I couldn’t but other than some of the words that got captured on the previous reports, I worked myself up into quite a fury.

I told them the truth of their stench. I told them the truth of the damage that they cause myself and every living thing around them. I showed them the neighbors that they had poisoned with their words and their presence and their demand that they should be revered as great and honorable people. Their entire presence is like a sickness that infects everyone that they touch. And for some reason we let them on the road, the artery that feeds the town. The road that brings friends when you need their help and the road to send a message along to someone else. And whenever these people believe they have the right to be on these roads, there is no such thing as happiness. Just sickness. Just sick people visiting other sick people and staring at each other without comprehending how sick they really are.

What would these guys be in the utopian society? I’m sure we have them. We have depression artists. Of course we have depression artists. Depression artist is just a name we give to someone who has not agreed to be an artist yet.

And I told them that I had earned my right to make a garden here. I told him that I had gone through the bureaucratic process of purchasing this house legally on the territory of the Republic of Belarus. I had fulfilled all of my bureaucratic obligations and was sober and awake for the entire experience. I also damaged myself because I chose to be gentlemanly to a person who did not deserve it and walked when I should have ridden my bike and that was the infection that followed me to my new home and this allowed me to walk upon arrival. That’s what opened the door to my alcoholic friends. They were the only ones who could show up and clean the floor and deal with my sickness for a few rubles. The neighbors wouldn’t lift a finger to do anything but talk about me and stare at me. Nothing. They just decided it wasn’t their problem.

I told them this. And I have a good voice and good lungs, ironically enough. I have a singing voice and I have an epic Russian language gopnik voice.

I felt I had said what I wanted. And yeah, birthday suit again. Yeah, I decided to fight the war nude. And you know, you can’t say more than the truth. I learned this lesson a long time ago. When it’s got to come out of you and you just can’t stop it, you have to let it go. But then there’s the moment where you find yourself on stage and your egotism or your own stupidity will not let you understand that your work on the stage is done. The next word is bullshit other than thank you and my situation did not call for any thank yous.

And I’m not sure whether this actually got into the reports this morning. I remember talking about whatever I was talking about and getting disturbed because the neighbors do not actually have communication skills. I want to make this clear that no matter how ironic I am with my use of words describing this situation, I have absolutely no belief that either of my neighbors retains the brain capacity to have a simple business conversation with another human being. I believe that they are exactly the model built by a conservative autocracy that demands absolute stupidity of its people. I believe this is the American internet troll. These are the vermin that make talking to people online an act of misery. These are the people who disturb us when we try to speak about things like ecology and reasonable management of resources or what to do about population problems or racial problems or gun violence and all of the wonderful cacophony of symphony of a lovely life that we should celebrate all the time with one holiday after another just sucking the dicks of the people poisoning you. These are the people who stop us from growing on the internet.

Jukes. A blight on the purity of a potato leaf. An absolutely disgusting greasy voracious pig who destroys the food. But with poison. Industrial poison. Internal combustion engine industrial poison piped right into your living room everyday every time he doesn’t fuck his wife.

Have a great children’s book that talks about a chain reaction like he doesn’t fuck his wife so his wife can’t calm down and his wife gets in the car to try and be calm but she can’t so he jumps in the car to try and be calm and he goes somewhere that takes her calm and makes her chew gum furiously hoping for a cigarette. They are definitely too busy to listen to me talk for 5 minutes.

“Hey, yo, dude. Those are some shitty cars you have there and I’ve been noticing that the smoke from your cars gets into my kitchen and my house. You don’t suppose you could do something about that, do you?”

“The only thing to do is buy a new car.” And he bought one that was worse than the old one. And then they unhooked the muffler from his car so it would be louder. And I’m pretty sure they took away the catalytic converters or anything that might somehow dim the amount of automobile fumes that date pump into the air. I’ve seen them pretend to work on cars. I don’t believe my neighbor is a mechanic because he is a piece of puff pastry so he would never get his hands dirty. But Quasimodo across the street, his homosexual romance, loves playing with motors. I guess there is their symbiotic relationship. My big shot Russian neighbor has a skell mechanic who grovels for him when he needs to feel like a man. Because really, only a man knows how to touch you just so, right bro?

Skell is short for skeleton and it is a New York hipster word describing drug addicts whose bodies had so completely withered away they were just walking skeletons. Come visit me and check out the hunchback when he pops out of his hole. He’s a scurrying little rat so you’ll see with your own eyes the beauty of nature in my little village.

Чего ты орёшь? They only ask questions and they do not answer them nor do they engage in conversation. This is a little bit of Russian that if you understand the gopnik accent is how Russian people speak to each other. It is an implication that if they can say these words, they are the powerful people. If you have an opportunity to look at another person and say this, you have power. My ex partner does this all the time instead of listening to me talk. Exactly like my neighbors, she completely rejects the Democratic process of discussion in order to find the most reasonable course of action. For 2 years they have refused to have a 5 minute conversation with a neighbor who is obviously quite angry at them. Sure, they were very happy when I seemed to be frightened back into my hole. And maybe they were right. Fucked up legs. No army. Way out of My League and out of my home country. They were just pissing on me weren’t they? During the winter, when there is no heat convection carrying the stench above human level, they still keep getting fidgety from lack of sex and needing to get in their cars and create more garbage and pollution. People needed to be gassed including themselves, a pregnant mother, something very similar to an autistic boy and whatever this new one is who is screaming bloody murder at the maliciousness of its habitat.

These were the words that my neighbor said to me. His wife had cackled him into leaving the house to find out what was wrong. I don’t even want to try and imagine how tight that man’s asshole probably was. He didn’t come armed. He just bought his doughy pig fat body with him and made it as far as my fence and said his three lines. To him, his ability to say these words dictated power and it was time for me to calm down. Everyone knows this. These are the rules of the game. Whoever has the right or believes they have the right to say the words чего ты орёшь, means that they dictate power. My god, don’t I know anything about Russian culture? That was checkmate. He got me. I was yelling and he got to say why are you yelling? It is not a question. It is not even a rhetorical question. It’s a statement of power. He said it. He said the words which means he had the power. He was doing his job and doing exactly what his wife was telling him to do. Go out there and say the three words dammit and stop this thing from happening in my house. I’m uncomfortable. Stop that man from screaming at us. Say the magic words like a man. Go act like a man. Immediately, go act like a man. Now, this is why I keep you around. Go and be my man. Go say the magic words.

And he did. So I came out of my kitchen where I think I was making breakfast. And yes, I had not put my clothes back on.

Today I had a conversation with my ex partner about this. She thinks that I am absolutely insane and probably she’s right. Another female asked me about this and I told her it was the weather and she seemed to understand me. The weather really has been perfect and wearing clothes is just more work for all the extra washing you have to do. But I mentioned to her that it’s been an extraordinary four or five days and that she should put it on her bucket list as something she definitely should do. 

Of course, we had to discuss what the idiom of a bucket list is. If you are unaware, I think it comes from a farmer’s idea that if the cow kicks a bucket over and the milk is spilled, that’s all. It’s over. And from this it’s synonymous with death. They also say by the farm sometimes in the same vein. But the point was that if you have not lived 4 days in a row completely naked, you should give it a try. Maybe it’ll change your life. Maybe when you get to the end of it you’re a little nostalgic and regretful to have to wear your clothes again.

Anyway, that was me. I don’t really know about these things, but I wonder what it felt like to be Sergey to have me come popping out of my kitchen and moving towards him speaking a lot of words sarcastically. Now, you might say that my tone was the thing that made or broke this situation. And if you’re the sort of person who believes in this sort of thing, global warming is real, groundwater is one meter down and all of your detente bullshit cocksucker nonsense has just been a compromise to let the thieves continue to poison the planet. That bitch was not going to talk to me because that bitch hasn’t shown up for one conversation between neighbors in 2 years. This prison bitch, my prison bitch, hasn’t shown up for work and two fucking years just like every other one of these mutant motherfuckers. The stupidest people in the history of history.

Technically, there actually was a plan. I talked to Ghenna about this. This was not particularly an exercise in cock sucking like my neighbor likes it. I did want to talk to Ghenna. I wanted to see if he took my advice and bought rice and peas and cabbage with the money I gave everybody last week. I was wondering if he would show up without cigarettes. He didn’t. You can’t really waste the good stuff where it is unappreciated, can you? But I also needed a hole. Could I have dug this hole? Yes. I didn’t want to. That’s what the big guy is for. Say what you want but there’s a soldier in there. The guy can dig a hole. The problem was that I lost my balance on my new pitching mound and tried to grab a small birch trunk that had come from the forest and had been doing its job for however long holding up the clothes line. That pole finally gave out when I put my weight against it and this left me with a saggy clothes line. The idea was to sink a pole that would work both as a support for the clothes line and also as the anchor point for some cattle panels which we are donating to our grapevines. And yes, the job was done well. He is amazing for wasting materials on these little improvisations that don’t work very much but he was happy to have something to do and the new clothesline is way stronger than the old one and the water drips on the grapes for added irrigation. 

Yeah, sometimes you just can’t explain to people that if they listen to you, their life will get a little better. It’s hard helping people who just have it in their head that getting into violent situations by completely ignoring the damage that they are causing to themselves and others should happen. What kind of landscaping company could we put together if this fucker was sober? If this team was even coherent, if they quit the cigarettes and the alcohol and the meat, what would they do if they actually tried to rise out of the mold that people jam them into? How much energy would they produce if we actually let them live a little before they pass away from this planet forever?

As for my neighbor, and it’s up to the editor whether I’ve made my point or not, he saw me coming out of my house talking a mile a minute and he decided it was better to run back into the house and hide under mommy’s skirt. They needed some help of course. They would never, ever agree to physically do anything themselves. There is a machine that they can use and that’s much better than actually touching anything. If there’s a machine that they can get to, they’re going to be okay.

Or in their case, they just started talking and looking for people to listen to them talk as they told their side of the story about why everything had happened. That was actually why Ghenna was here. I had called Little t but she said she had slept through it. Maybe. But Ghenna had heard my voice on the other side of town so I know that it exists over there. Especially the part where my solo peeked out.

Я хочу природа! Я хочу природа!

Чего ты орал?

I want nature is not comprehensible at any volume. It is not comprehensible at any number of words or actions. I can stand in front of their house and scream at them from the depth of my lungs so the entire fucking town can hear me that I want to be close to Nature and that’s why I bought this place and that they are a flaming abscess on the face of the planet that needs to be dealt with with some serious, serious curing.

So what happened? Nothing happened. I made a big noise and probably they tried to call the cops and probably the cops told them to fuck off and stop calling them. And then they looked around to see if they could talk to someone who would be on their side and maybe they found one or two people to placate them until they could go back to being calm. They did drive their cars one or two more times. I would like to say that I got through to them and they talked it out with a lawyer or something like that.

If they would have talked to me, the newest plan is actually a really nice one. I have this group of workers who could handle this job in about 2 hours but we could just simply close the fence on my side of his property and they could park the car on the other side. They don’t have anything protecting the car’s paint from the elements so they would actually get some shade from some trees. The distance from their house to the car would be almost exactly the same really. 5 m more? But the car would be parked further away from their house which would limit the amount of poison that they put into themselves. We would also be very happy to throw down a layer of fertilizer, a top dressing and seated with an absolutely ridiculous amount of wildflowers that would make the area that used to be your driveway bloom with unbelievably vibrant color just outside the front door where your child could come wandering to a very safe place full of color and life.

So that’s the whole report I think. The only other thing I want to say is that the local cop doesn’t really bother me much anymore. He used to like to bother alcoholics a lot. He would come by and орат when he saw them. He liked beating the alcoholics back into their places. I guess he considers himself a gardener and these are jukes. They are also Belarusian pensioners but you know, cops are cops. And technically, I thought these villages were retirement communities. I didn’t know that retirement communities had cops that scream at you and threaten you.

Anyway, the last time I saw him, he tried to do this beating down thing but I wasn’t having any of it and it Disturbed him that I didn’t react quite the way he expected me to. It was a moment of Awakening that he was not quite speaking to the person he thought I was. And I remember I specifically asked him what he was going to do on the day he realized that they were the criminals and not me. That was 2 years ago. I think he heard me. You think this one will get through to my neighbors?

We go back to work at the Utopian tomorrow morning. 16 pages. We got this. Just another day at the office when you live in Utopia.

Hey, check it out. 6000 words. Just like the old days. Just like we never went anywhere at all…