KING'S "THE BODY"/MOONLIGHT

I've seen a conjecture of letters, recently. Something like "NaPoBlWomb." Something like that. The "acronym" advocates a weblogger to post one weblog per day. Is that tough? No. Here's my acronym: "Bl24." Translate? Okay.

Translated, "Bl24" means to post a 'blog every hour that one can, during a 24-hour stretch. I know, I know, work gets in the way. Fuck work. This 'bloggin' shit esta muy importante! For one's creatively muscle-bound brain. So.

On with it.

I walked to 7-11 tonight--20 minutes ago, in fact--and I took my boy Lou. He was a perfect gentleman; he neither lunged nor sprang ahead at phantom squirrels. He heeled and I loved him for it. We walked south on Crooks Road for about a quarter-mile and then we angled to the brightly-lit 7-11. I was in need of a pack of smokes and Lou was in need of a good shit-session--both of our dreams were answered.

In 7-11, I said hello to a police ossifer and shot the shit with the cashier--Peg--who has lost 160 pounds during the last two years. The transformation has been amazing and, though she is in her 40s and has four children, the oldest being 23, I sometimes get a chub-dog talking with her. Her eyes are brilliant-blue and she runs five miles a day and I've also seen the before and after pictures. Anyway.

So I said hello to the cop that made his nightly stop and I asked him if my dog was still tethered to the telephone pole.

Meg/Peg said, "Uh, yeah. You just heard him bark."

The cop, a short-statured stout fellow with a thick moustache (no way!), motioned towards the dude that was walking in to 7-11 at the same time as the cop. Said dude had a shaved head, many piercings, a goatee, and he was wearing cut-off camo shorts with big black boots.

The cop said, "Yeah, he was barking at him."

I said, "Yeah, him or you--one of the two."

The cop mumbled something as he walked down the coffee isle.

Huh, I asked.

Peg/Meg said, "He said that he barks back."

The cop said, "I bark back."

With that nugget of useless information, I bid Peg/Meg a good night and walked outside to collect my dog. We walked home, and he was brilliant, heeling and sitting when ordered to do so. Along the way, I began to think about Stephen King's short story, "The Body," for some reason.

First published in the collection of four short stories entitled "Different Seasons," "The Body" was a good yarn about four pubescent males walking the backwoods of Maine to see for themselves a real-live dead body. A kid got hit by a train whilst picking blueberries--I think his name was Ray.

(By the way? How anyone gets hit by a train whilst picking blueberries is out of my current grasp of knowledge. One can pick blueberries, by all means. Sure! Whee! Blueberries! But when one gets splattered by a train whilst picking blueberries, I do believe that the blame falls squarely on one's crushed shoulders. Just my opinion. Get EARS, motherfucker!)

Why the thought of this particular novella occured to me as I walked the quarter-mile from 7-11, I don't know. I truly don't. Was I on an adventure? Was my going to the store at 3:45 for smokes an adventure? I hardly think so. In fact, I see it more clearly as a mismanagement of slumber. A man's got to sleep sometime; 3 hours just doesn't cut it.

I'm 10 hours from eating a deliscious Thanksgiving meal. Yes, my fam dambly is celebrating the Day a day later. I have to awaken in 6 or 7 hours and cut up a bunch of fruit and slather them with vanilla yogurt and I also need to remember to pick up a big container of cider. The cider may be forgotten--it's already been forgotten once. Hopefully I remember the cider.

Remember the cider.

Remember the cider.

Back to King's "The Body" and moonlight:

Narrated by the erstwhile Dick Dreyfuss, "The Body" was made into a movie, directed by Rob Reiner, called "Stand By Me." It was the first movie my family ever rented for our brand-new VCR and it's a damn good movie. A lot of young actors who made it big were in it, and one of them died of a heroin overdose outside of a New York nightclub when he was in his 20s. Big loss. Sad fucking loss. River Pheonix. "Vern" turned out to be a dude who dates supermodels and "Teddy" turned out to be "one of the Coreys." Corey Feldman. "Gordie" acted after "S.B.M," most notably in the Star Trek juggernaut. He wore tight pant-suits--nice career-choice, dude.

Why, though, did "Stand By Me" strike me as I walked the moonlit walk from 7-11 to my apartment? I'm still trying to figure why I had a sudden urge to write about a well-written novella and moonlit streets.

Was it because I was on a journey? Not bloody likely. I was walking a quarter of a mile with my boy Lou. Is that a journey? No. Was it because I was on my way to see the body of a boy who'd died whilst walking the train tracks after picking blueberries? Assuredly not. Then WHAT?!

Why am I asking you, dear reader--and, also, why did I just raise my text-voice? I dunno.

Here it is; I'll make something up. The hour groweth late; it's near 5:00AM. I'll make something up. And it'll make perfect sense. Serious-like.

I thought of moonlight because I saw moonlight. That part is easy. I thought of "The Body"....

I thought of "The Body" because...I'm guttering, here. I thought of "The Body" because...what? journey? my own body? Am I Ray-Ray in the ditch near the side of the railroad tracks. No, thank you very much. Then WHAT?!

What is nothing and Nothing is what. Sometimes a human brain will seize upon something and criss-cross and bow to it when It is not even a full idea/thought. Here in the hospital, we call that Obsessive. Oh. And also Compulsive. Occasionally, here in the Ward, we throw the two words together, seperated by a hyphen and we slap the word "Disorder" on the ass side of the Vocab Train. We, here in the hospital, Room 313, MANUFACTURE a word and we are proud. The word that we create is actually more of a phrase, or a slim-slam of many syllables:

"Obsessive Compulsive Disorder."

We are proud but--oh, but, then--but then the nurse, Miss Rachet, the bitch who made Billy so self-loathing that he offed himself in the "Cuckoo's Nest," walks down the hall, in her silent sensibly-white nurse's shoes and shovels more meds down our throats. Not all of us can be Jack. Most of us take the pills like the sheep we are.

To break away from my hospital delusion. This, dear reader, is called Creative Writing, written by a dude, at 5:00 in the morning, after having had 15+ beers and 3+ cups of java. I'm not really crazy. Unless the definition of "crazy" is pulling an unwarranted all-nighter the day before a belated Thanksgiving Day celebration. And, if that's the case?

Call me the Hatter.

--peace--