Leaving hotel calafornix

AMBER HARDIN LIVES ON SUNNYBROOK, TOASTING GAINESVILLE

RIDEING A BIKE AROUND S. FL AS “PAUL REVERE” BEFORE THE FINANCIAL COLLAPSE AND I TOLD YOU SO

When delivering the message in the U.S. mail I thought it would be advantages to write a short (catchy) synopsis of the idea contained in the letter on the back of the envelope. The post person then could turn the envelope over, read the back and be able to communicate the idea he’d delivered if they wanted to. People involved with message delivery tend to be important in the community. A post person could easily share the infinity project idea with powerful influential people in the local area.

Often times when I sent the message there were “special” effects/affects that accompanied the delivery, as negotiated with likely entities. One night I sent a package to the Kanazawa family in Japan. It was basically a few pictures of me, a fish print or two, and a letter all contained in a rocket/submarine container made out of a paper towel roll and some other stuff packaged in two used manila envelopes that I pulled out of the trash can at my folks place. One of the manila envelopes had AIG’s (American International Group Inc.) address on it. I placed the stamps, including many Amelia Earhart’s in a dark (extremely intimidating) bird like form that practically covered the front of the envelope and sent it to Yucca, Yoshimitsu, and Toshie in Hanazono. I dropped the envelope in the blue can about midnight, stuck my head in the mailbox opening and forcefully shouted FOCUS into…

This is the only letter out of a hundred or so that was apparently refused delivery by the recipients (my in laws in Japan). Interestingly enough it looked like the package was returned to AIG instead of my place on the day they hit “rock bottom”. The agent who had an account with my mum returned it later (he seemed kinda worried), and my dad confiscated it in violation of postal law. Let’s play Dominoes, suckers! This is how I row.

LEHMAN BROS FALL WHILE ON THE PHONE WITH MICHAEL DIDIER WHO’S SITTING DOWN THE HALL, DISCUSING DIDIROT AND THE EDITOR/ PUBLISHER PROBLEM

Trying to find a position of employment in the USA that could be productive instead of destructive or could possibly get one into or towards that narrow hard to find crack in the wall surrounding the garden of the kingdom of heaven is tough. On a dam planet the type of work that could simultaneously keep one from starving and out of doom forever is hard to find and when found the position is usually taken. I was trying to steal a scene from Hollywood’s “Good Will Hunting”, and I was looking to push a mop around the FAU Oceanography College, janitor at Ocean U. I figured I could work the grave yard shift, clean up the classrooms and answer the dam shiddy question on the chalkboard.

The place was supposedly down in Dania Fl, and while asking or seeking the address and directions to the place to enquire about employment I found the info hard to come by, the people working for FAU who should have known were elusive when questioned, as if something was amiss. Something was going on. It was suspicious. I put my light blue suit on and megladon fossil tooth necklace, took TriRail south and jumped on a bus headed east as the place was on the beach. If I hadn’t gone to the University of Florida this was going to be my second choice. While I was making my decision the Palm Beach Post had a lot of front page articles about this college wrapped around a bunch of students in a submarine. I didn’t bite. Everyone I knew told me anything to do with the ocean was a dead end.

There was a 6’ fence surrounding the what looked like vacant building and empty parking lot and as I approached the gate I kinda assumed the gate of a pronghorn antelope looking to jump the fence, but just before I launched over it I noticed the gate was unlocked. Around 3 PM I entered to discover the janitor, a black man approaching retirement mopping the floor. It’s really difficult for me to explain or tell in words what was exchanged or transpired between the janitor and I. It chokes me up and brings tears to my eyes. He knew who I was, exactly. He’d been waiting since the beginning of time for me to show up. He seemed relieved at my arrival yet strained to find me in a similar condition to him. A tortured soul doing his best to solve the problem of the horrifying eminent collapse of life, the oceans, the rivers, and humans forever.

If the clowns responsible for the damming and draining of this planets life had collected that which falls from the heavens, with the structure and lot he and I were surrounded by and used their main product as fertilizer instead of flushing life down the tubes we could be enjoying a fish sandwich and coconut/cocoplum salad with sea grape juice wine instead of living in shock and horror. As it was he greeted me, “About time you showed up”. I gave him the preceding story line, which was largely unnecessary as perceptive as he was.

The only information in the place, which was an example in itself of the superfluous box building for no reason façade that was part of the problem, was a brochure rack containing several fire prevention pamphlets from the Fire Department. Fire prevention brochures in the oceanography building? It looked like they were interested in dousing the flames of desire that are burning down the garden and ocean. Included and seemingly out of place was a pamphlet concerning hydroelectric turbines to possibly be placed in the Gulfstream to produce power as if the vampires needed more joules. The hydroelectric idea was put forth by Willie Howard a staff reporter from the Palm Beach Post and West Palm Beach Fishing Club member who refused to print the dam truth and instead espoused the opposite idea, dam the ocean, and chop up the last of the fish in a hydroelectric turbine. His and others dam fool ideas are why I dropped out of the fishing club.

The bottom fell out of the FU FU bird butteryfly garden business. I got work as a substitute teacher with the Palm Beach County School District located at the Fulton Holland Building (known locally as the Taj Mahal) just before all the once undesirable positions were filled. I substituted for a year or so, K~12. I got to work at my old schoolhouses. I was still trying not to follow the curriculum.

Take the building blocks and remove them from the forefront of preschool classrooms. Open the window. I like the youth, the younger the better. They seem to get corrupted as they age, 8^th grade is tough. It was nice for me, cause if I had any problems or not, my mom, with 30 years of teaching experience, would let me know about a potential solution at the dinner table. Whether I was livin there or somewhere else I was smart enough to show up at my folks place just before dinner, usually. It’s fun to walk in just as the meal is served.

I sat outside of Da Da’s in Delray Beach, Fl with “the Reality Thief” and shuffled an entirely complete deck of cards I’d either found in the trash and rescued from the landfill or bought for a quarter from the thrift store which in Amerika is essentially the same thing. I explained this to the “Reality Thief” using an idea that he fine tuned me in and told him I was going to kind of “waste” the deck and not use it as it was intended for a much shorter period of time than it could have been used, but for primarily an environmental “good for the children” conversational “icebreaker” thing and plus I didn’t march into the store, buy it brand new and thus order the environmentally harmful manufacture of the device be done.

I didn’t use this “card trick” on everyone, just types I thought I could transfer the idea to easily, the idea being the restoration of the free flow of rivers specifically by undamming them, the collection of that which falls from the heavens by converting ruef into a super, and the replacement of the flush toilette with a urine separating composting no flush less toil (much less toil) ette with a squirt gun. Ending the damages and installing the kings’ throne. The reality thief smiled and I splayed out the cards in my hand making it easy for him to pick one and explained to him that particular cards represented different ideas and one could tell a lot about a person by the card they picked, seemingly at random. Pick a card. He quickly began to pull a card from the deck. Aces are low. He quit extracting that card, smiled, and pushed it back into the splayed out deck of cards with his index finger and quickly drew another card considering what I’d said.

Most people expect me to guess which card they picked, that’s not what we’re doing here. You pick the card and I interpret the resulting card that you picked as it applies to who you are. He smiled. I asked him to show me the card, he did. King of Hearts. The highest card in the deck and the corizone, not much else to say here. I explained that if he picked a 9 I could have said it was the Chinese lucky number or perhaps the one who picked it was a denying dam fool for instance. I also told him that he could keep the card and I would replace it with one of my http://infinityproject.wordpress.com business cards in case someone wanted to play along but felt they were the king of Hearts as well.

I thanked him for not picking the Joker, the card that could be whatever it wanted to be, as that was my card. Also, I told him that another reason I was doing this “trick” was to have the people pick 49 of the cards and at that point I’d have 5 cards left, which would be mine. A poker (poke her, or poke a hole in the dams) hand that the people “dealt” me. Essentially I was playing a poker game with the world and I was interested in what the people would deal me. I mean I knew who I was, the man himself, but intrinsically the people would decide, this, and whether I’d “win the game”. They would ultimately decide their (and everything else’s) fate and they would personify this and me, who I was, by the last 5 cards left.

I explained to the “Reality Thief” that I’d already performed this particular “card trick” 3 times. The first time as I remember the people “dealt” me a natural strait, 6,7,8,9,10, the next time a full boat with a Joker, Kings and 8’s. The last time they dealt me a pair of 6’s, a pair of Jacks and a Joker for a second full boat. I transmitted this picture to him 666+JJ, “the beast” and “double J”, or the Antichrist and Christ in the same boat. He smiled big, liking this idea.

I verbally explained to him the way I insisted on playing poker, which allowed me to express the general idea just by the way I played it. A.C.E.’s are low, the Army Corps of Engineers. Jokers’ wild, thus 5 of a kind beats the Royal Flush (the flush toilette). A Royal Flush is King high, thus the King wasn’t stuck between a dame and an A.C.E. Pretty slick, huh? He seemed to like this idea. I play stud or draw, which I let the others decide as well as the limit and the anti, that way I don’t decide everything and they get a choice. I also explained to him that usually people did not want to play with the Joker’s wild and would immediately try to play a different game once they got the cards in their hands, which I would refuse to agree to.

Many may wonder how “the Reality Thief” drew the king, and knew to not draw the first card (mostly likely an Ace). The simplest explanation is he just knew which card to pick. He’s been pickin cards for so long and taking note of what the card actually is as opposed to what he thought it was before selecting it that he fine tuned his ability to recognize his consciousness. He listens to his brain. It tells him which card to pick. He’s the best in this field I’ve ever seen, but everyone, when presented with this idea picked their card. The larger explanation of how this occurs would fill volumes. Essentially, this “card trick” doesn’t seem like it’s that big a deal, but it’s basically how I decide which letters to send where, when, to who, and what the contents of the letter are. I imagine a bunch of possible “cards” and pick out the correct ones. Then, when the message is delivered to the recipient it arrives with emphasis or “special affects” as I call it. The fire alarm goes off and the building needs to be evacuated when the letter is opened, the water main breaks in town, the sewer blows up, a storm wipes out a particular site nearby, sometimes just a bubble floats up in the nearby water tank or a bird lands on the window sill, what have you. One way or another I’m going to get you.

One day I got the “call”, a computer recorded mess., from the school district to show up at my ole’ high school, Atlantic. I rode my folding EXMONTEGUE bicycle, with the name covered in stickers (camouflaged), to the brand new (unnecessary) campus in my linen suit (JC with dreads look). When I walked in the door to the designated building where I was to sub., there was something going on, as usual. Like an apparition, no doubt I appeared. Across from the room where I was to teach was the most incredibly, how shall I say? young, attractive, very aware and communicative young lady, a teacher, looking at me in… A day or so later I would find out splayed across the front page of the Palm Beach Post a story about her getting busted having an affair with another 17/18 year old student. I walked in the door obviously, just after she had been notified she was busted and ruined. A Great American Witch Hunt victim, the pile had been lit. She was obviously seeking me (for justice), as I walked in the door, this blew her away. Just another day for me. Later, I tried to formulate a “letter to the editor” in response, but, they would never had printed it as written anyway. That’s how they do it in the U.S.A., roast the best.

I entered the classroom. The absent teacher had left a note to turn on the T.V. and left a couple CD’s. I let kids decide. On the cover of the first CD was a picture of President George Bush with his hand up in the air. It looked like a Nazi salute and I displayed the picture in a likewise fashion. Nope, they didn’t want to see that one. The other film was a 70’s era (complete with soundtrack) idea relating to the civil rights stuff and in particular the girl killed under the library in Alabama. After a few minutes the kids lost interest and I turned off the film and gave them a short synopsis of the idea. People protesting, marching, and singing along (YEAH!) against the “way it is” and demanding some change. The African Americans had had enough of the Jim Crow junk and were tired of sittin in the back of the bus, getting served out the back door of restaurants, and drinking from separate water fountains. I pointed out that the back of the bus was the safest seat, and that I thought getting served out the back door (where there was no stupid inside rules, and one could meekly eat in the shade if they cared too for instance) was better than eating inside the shed anyway. I told them that evidently the government responded and over the years removed the separate water fountains and now they could pay for it by the bottle, suckers. SEE? Be careful what you ask for. The kids liked this idea, the truth. Students give teachers nicknames, and mine became “waterfountain”.

DAWN BAUMGARDEN

DRAFTING CLASS SUB FOR MY FORMER TEACHER MR.MIZINSKI

While most people would think I was crazy just for riding my bike to the Bamboo Room for a blues show from Delray 20 miles away, I’ve found that it’s an enjoyable experience and the “It takes too long and it’s too hard” thing most envision, is actually the reality of their life as they toil at the job to afford the dam road, infernal combustion engine, wheels, fuel and insurance that allows them to sit in their “cave” for a ½ hour and watch T.V. and then drive there while I’m “getting clean”, eating the last of the wild caught alligator jowls I traded for the “alligator pear” avocadoes from the Haitian father at St. Ann’s Catholic Church who I gave the coconuts to I got from…

Of course I can’t afford the electricity so I’m looking through my wardrobe, thinking, by candle light of the appropriate outfit for the show. No, not the brand new T shirt, just washed jeans and $100 throw away shoes, can’t afford that either. I got a living wage and I’ll have to wear the Florsheim black leather shoes, the red, white and black checkerboard wool Pendletons and a white Towncraft dinner jacket. If only I can find a red rose for my lapel before I get to the show. I had to settle for a white carnation from the funeral home I traded for some nitrogen in an “organic” ureic acid form. I entered the always exquisite Bamboo Room as the “Natty Dread Godfather” and stood at the bar next to the biggest sharpest looking Southern Italian man I’d ever seen. Life just props me up. Scary scary.

When I returned to my pad about 3 in the morning I found my landlord/clown roommate was changing the locks on the back door. He’d decided I couldn’t live there anymore and not only that he was making it effective at 3 AM and I couldn’t even get my stuff. I’d just finished installing a site specific native plant garden of natural abundance at his place and had given him a couple hundred dollars rent to find this crazy junk going on. I questioned why he was doing this at this time with his girlfriend in tow and demanded he let me get my belongings and return the rent money. He called the Delray Beach cops and then like the manically, paranoid shitsofrentic bipolar fool that he is, he lied to the cops. I just sat there on the stoop of the house and calmly pointed out the truth. The judge/cops verdict was I needed to go to the Crisis Center. I calmly entered as the “Natty Dread Godfather” and maintained appearances until a month later, when my parents (who are the ones who decide whether I get out if ever) told me I had to get a haircut or else they wouldn’t sign me out. Psycho. I got a haircut just to prove I don’t care about the dreads. Can you imagine living in a state where they can give you a chemical lobotomy, turn your brain to mush, with just enough awareness to line up for food and sit on a flush toilet (perfect), if you won’t get a haircut? This is Floorduh, America 2008. I began to seek asylum, there isn’t one.

At Congress Middle School I applied for a permanent position as a wheelchair guy after assisting a student Michael Pagnano. The position actually paid less than the substitute position and came with no dental plan. At the time I was redesigning HELL, which is closed and open on the surface at this time, and 6^th grade student Mr. Pagnano, unprompted, volunteered his recommendation. One morning, Mike and I got there early, we were in the library where he usually liked to work on some kind of coast guard helicopter fire rescue computer program thing or research books about natural disasters. He just came right out and said, out of nowhere, unprompted, that we should “Take the suckers responsible for the disaster on the planet and put em in a recirculating volcano which lava flows into the La Brea (he was a stickler for pronunciation) Tar Pit and then erupt em back up to the volcano lava slide and down to the tar pit again, FOREVER”. As far as I was concerned Michael Pagnano was descended from the family responsible for the package and bag movement from the sea to the top of the mountain, and back again, in Northern Italy, if not the chief himself. He was searious. I told em’ I’d take note, and eventually decided to make his idea what lies behind door # 2.

That which lies behind door #3 is a remastered version of “Dante’s Inferno”, with the frozen lake at the bottom. Get it? Door #4 is the door of no thing, ultimately the worst experience (unless you “blew it”/didn’t adhere to the laws of this manuel and were fool enough to pick door #1 which I designed). For those who wanted nothing or even worse nothing specifically (no species). These who take this door (#4) get their rotten soul or consciousness and nothing else, forever (its kinda like going in “the hole”). “There is nothing I can do”, being their #1 response when presented with the infinity project idea. “I can’t, well, cause you know” their #2 response.

Also there is still a “purgatory” type of experience (before one gets to the doors) that lasts several decades, at least. As best as could be described in words its kinda like a twin drive in movie theater except you don’t get an automobile. The speakers that people used to hang from the car windows are still there though. They’re electrified. It’s raining, its 34 degrees, everyone’s in their skinsuit, the place is packed, and you finally don’t have to bearashit, just stand in it, as there is no place “to go”. Keep in mind for those who were “shocked” by the present dam culture and lived “covered in shit” whether literally and/or figuratively by the “dam overlords” and attacked the dam sheddy problem with everything they could muster, they don’t have to endure this (they get better “seats” and a fast forward button). The two “movies” playing are of course Emanuel I (“Jesus”) and emanyouill or emanyouwell (John Lawrence Kanazawa Jolley), the full second by second epics. Of course as one can see I’ve outlived Immanuel and obviously the second screen doesn’t go blank or dark or get stuck on the “final” at Calvary Hill. Nope, a “nature program” comes on interspersed with other notables, could be you, those who adhered to the laws of thE manuel or life and put forth a free flowing reviere idea.

Upon installation of the heavens on the surface, as directed or known, starting with the undamming of the surface’s rivers, heaven will reopen. The mountain of saints or “pyramid scheme” as envisioned will change. The top will get stretched out so it’s longer than the bottom. Almost like a trapezoidal shaped structure, the shape of a dam on a river. This is where you, all, will “go” upon expiration of skinsuit and expedition of soul or “essence of one’s self” from surface or vessel. There’ll be more area or “room” at or towards the top. This is what’s called for. This will make it even worse for those souls who didn’t “score” so high and at the same time give incentive to “reach for the top”. The shape of heaven or “port authority” will gradually over time become “spherical” with less on the bottom, more in the middle, and eventually “egg shaped” with the heavy end toward the top.

This will be accomplished by the nature of the reviere passport system in effect. Those “performing well” communicable souls or entities will be offered reviere passports or new skin suits upon demand. The better one behaves, the more effort one puts towards undamming life and maintaining it that way and stewarding/containerizing and transporting life around or through any eventuality the sooner one may expect a new skin suit, redeemable upon individuals demand. These characters likely to score well again, others not.

Of the people that I actually know there’s only one person that looks like they’re gonna make it to that “narrow hard to find crack in the wall surrounding the garden of the Kingdom of Heaven”. I’ve seen many elsewise that stand a chance but there’s only one man that I’m really familiar with that looks like he’s gonna get there. Interestingly enough his name’s Pete. Pete’s “making sure the good lords herbs get delivered” and he makes custom, mostly wood spearguns, big ones. He lives on a sailboat. He’d periodically come by my parents place during my life as he’d known them for a long time. Lately he’s been coming by to use my duds carpentry tools to repair his sailboat. I’d usually make him a mostly coconut water, lime, ice and just a splash of rum beverage when he came by in the late afternoon.

He had an interesting story. Back in the heyday of the So. Fla. cocaine smuggling days he used to strap on a bunch of stuff and parachute out of an airplane into the Everglades and get the (albeit overprocessed) herbs to market. Imagine what it’s like to jump out of a plane, at night, and parachute into a swamp. You’d jump out and likely immediately know where you were from all the city lights and occasional car on the few roads. One night “they” told him to jump, and he jumped, out over the open ocean instead of land. This was probably immediately apparent to him, he was usually pretty savvy about determining location. So they dropped him out in the middle of the ocean, at night. But he must have been aware of his location, and determined, cause he swam to shore. I often ask him what the name of the peninsula or island, the piece of dirt, he swam up on was, because I know the way life works and the significance of it. He won’t say. It was that significant. Now he delivers largely unprocessed herbs, with a drop tank, GPS, rebreather and underwater scooter. Big game hunter, he doesn’t mess around.

Mr. Mike Pagnano’s shoes always slipped off his swollen feet and while I carried a chrome Florsheim shoe horn to handle this problem, I always recommended he get a pair of ROWman sandals (“NO! No! NOO!” he’d say), or fancy Velcro asstronaughct shoes. He didn’t want those either, and commented that he sure did like the way I massaged his calves while I slid his shoes on for the n^th time for the day. Yeah, Mikey I know.

Things started to go south when I started wearing sunglasses to work and complaining about the blinding, sicklikal flourasssint lighting. Not allowed. When the flourisn’t lights started emanating smoke it was cause for alarm. Me standing behind the Principle during class change in the hallway and singing the Muppets theme song, “It’s time to face the music, it’s time to get it right”, didn’t help either. Plus, I’m the kind of character that spends his spare time leafing through the recycling bin next to the copy machine in the library commenting on how ludicrous and downright false the curriculum (as evident by the discarded “handouts”) was. Just Checking.

On inauguration day Michael Pagnano and I were watching the “show” instead of studying mathematics. On t.V. they made mention of V.P. Dick Cheney getting wheeled out of office in a wheelchair. I thought this was fitting seeing that I was working at Congress pushing a young man around in a wheelchair. Over the course of the last years I’d sent plenty of letters to Cheney and Bush containing demands to initiate the infinity project idea. Usually I accompanied the message with a #2 “Silver Fox” or a #2 rainbow “Vibrax” fishing lure with the barbs smashed down and the hooks carefully sharpened for Dick as these were the lures he should have been using when I met him casting Gator trout lures on the upper “Birds of Prey” Snake River section. I sent Bush top water chuggers similarly with the barbs flattened and hooks extra sharp. He moved out of the White House into a deluxe mansion in an exclusive neighborhood. Reportedly the former First Lady Barbara “snapped” or smashed her neck shortly after, perhaps redecorating the vanity.

A couple years later I heard Bush bought a reservoir down in Brazil for his daughters. I figured maybe he really did know how to fly, (I often tell people to put their money where their mouth is), and sent him a recommendation “when the dam shit goes down” to try and exceed the Bibles 66.66% recommended natural system and shoot for 88% wild or carefully stewarded area, in addition to some ranching or even better shepherding, than he (or his family) could make money perhaps with “ecotours” feeding the touring note takers “Bush meat” and bush meat. With this kind of positive credit accrual one might be able to handle the negative impact of an ice machine at the place for iced sun tea, pink wild fruit champagne on ice,