Friday, September 22, 2006

Canted, angular, oblique

Arriving here was difficult. 10 miles up rough bouldered dirt road, deadfallen trees block the rutted road; winter blowdown. Drove around; offroad. Messed up a plastic piece on the underside of my car – went a little too fast, got a flat, changed it in the hot sun. Then a two mile walk, uphill through pink June Rhododendron and strangely beautiful white Beargrass, fir trees, moss covered basalt outcrops. Up switchbacks traversing the side of the steep hills, along ridgetop, back into forest and then, in a clearing, at ridges end, I found a kind of paradise.

This was an old fire lookout tower, at edge of ridge, in a clearing, built up over rocks up twelve feet on solid wooden beams. I climbed up, and saw the door was latched. I reached out, and unlatched the hook.

It was a pure bare space: a table, a few chairs, swept wooden floor, a cast iron stove, two iron framed cots. This fire lookout has not been in official use since the 60’s, but the people who have stayed here have left books, bags of rice, some bread, food, pots and pans, few blankets, unmatched utensils, a pair of binoculars, a star chart, candles, a harmonica.

On all four sides were shutters, covering the windows. I opened up the shutters, propped them up with wooden supports I found under one of the cots, and as the lookout was filled with light, it became part of sky, part of forest, part of mountain.

You can see Mt. Adams, St Helens, Mt. Jefferson, 3 Fingered Jack, The Three Sisters; The volcanoes of the Cascade range. On Mt Hood; stark snow covered white against the landscape - Palmer Snow Field, Steel Cliffs, Mississippi Head, and Crater Rock. A lenticular cloud.scrapes the top of Mt. Hood.

Today in one day it has been cloudy, overcast, and then a thunderstorm But now the sky becomes clear; clouds dissipate with liquid and hesitant drift. I have only prepared for a day hike but I realize, I must spend the night.

As the earth spins the sun down low in sky, I sit on the platform, barefoot, I have taken off my hiking boots, my socks are drying on the rail. I watch light shift and change on the curving forms (a sensuous morphology) of the tree covered Cascade hills. Subtle shadows of green in dusk light. Interplay of light and shadow and shades of greens. The sun becomes orange fire behind the trees.

I chop some aspen logs, throw in some broken cedar shingles, and make a fire in the cast iron stove I take a pan, open up a can, and make beef stew.

Stars are coming out now, Jupiter is visible in the west, a hands breadth above the horizon. I see something strange in the west; hovering where the sun set, a thin crescent new moon, so thin bright it is like a curved sliver, carved of bone white china. The thinnest first edge of moon, it sets an hour after the sun’s orange fire burn.

I am writing this by candle light. Burning aspen logs and old shingle that used to shield this place. I read a book of poetry I found in the bookcase. I write in my notebook. I play desolation angel on the harmonica late into night.

Outside, arching over Mount hood, or the dark mass of where Mount Hood should appear, from North and Mt. Adams, to the Three Sisters, is the Milky Way, densely spangled with stars. Stars full of sky, sky full of stars.

I read through all of the log books. “Came up in mid winter, January 8th, snowshoeing in over the snow drifts.” Someone who was a ranger here in 56 has come awash in memory. He writes “It’s all coming back to me like the twilight zone.” Jack Hues, 73 years old, writes proudly that hehas been here more than 50 times. The entries speak of what was seen: woodpeckers at dawn, the mountain covered with fog, bobcats, eagles. Two women write of how they were lost in the snow, calling for help on cell phone, until they saw sanctuary rising out of the fog. I read some wild stories of smoking pot and drinking whisky. One diary entry reads “3 girls, 2 guys, wild sex.” Others write of solitude, serenity, of the world closed in by fog. I see pictures, children’s musings, poems, love letters, and I read in the notebook where to find a spring – I did not bring enough water.

It must be close round midnight. The Milky Way has risen until it is like a spangled banner over the world straight above. I take the binoculars and see so many stars, look straight deep into galaxies center.

As I looked up at the galaxy, I thought about the path of the sun across the sky, the plane of the ecliptic, and I looked up at the angle of the milky way, the galactic plane. And I had a realization; that the solar system is at angles with the galaxy. I had always without thinking thought that the solar system was aligned with the galaxy, there was a reflexive symmetry in their positions. I suddenly realized the sun and its planets revolve and rotate canted, oblique round the galaxy. (I looked it up later, about 62 degrees) I had always supposed we were on the same plane, I had been mistaken. They were not aligned on the same plane. Oblique, not transverse, not longitudinal, not parallel, not perpendicular.

I put another log in the fire. It was cold out in the clear skied night, but warm inside. Lay down on the thin mattress, pulled up an old woolen blanket, and went to sleep.

In the morning, I was up before dawn. The sky became pink to the north, and not for an hour or so of soft light did the sun burn up past the right side of Mt. Hood. I made coffee on the stove, which I had kept burning through the night, and sweetened with lumps of brown sugar. Smoke my last cigarette.

I climb to the edge of the ridge, stand on and outcrop, and watch over a forest valley to the south. I look at Mt. Jefferson, Three Fingered Jack, Broken top. I don’t even know how far I can see. Hawks spire over the ridge, I hike down to the spring: it trickles out of moss covered rocks, in clear brightness. Carry 4 gallons back up the hill.

I spend the morning breathing the air, watching the glaciated face of Hood, looking at birds, studying the landscape, writing in my notebook.

Happy to be in a place so crazy beautiful. A place that seems to come out of the imaginations of the old beat wanderers, a place where they turned into desolation angels. New York, Denver, Mexico City, San Francisco, Morocco, Big Sur, Paris, and the Cascades, the stations of the beatnik cross, The beatnik bodhisattvas wandered, searching for kicks, enlightenment, satori - to leave the world behind, to look into themselves, into the mountains into the sky, into themselves in their holy yearning burn for the fire and ice of crazy beautiful existence. And they wrote, like me. I write in my notebook.

It drifts to the afternoon, and I am seeing the first people I have seen since I got here. Hikers pass through. It must be time to leave. I sweep the floors, close the windows, take a large bag of trash to carry back down, latch the door gently, and leave.

As I hike down, through switchbacks, past Beargrass, beneath ridges of rhododendrons. I can’t help but think about my misconception about the alignment of the solar system to the galaxy. I had traveled through life under misconception. I had believed in alignment without thinking, and was mistaken. There is no alignment, the path of the earth around the sun, and the solar system around the milky way; the relationship of the ecliptic, to the galactic plane, as my own path through life must be, is not aligned, it is canted, angular, oblique.

james honzik

Thursday, September 21, 2006

the god of new york

I lived in New York City for 10 years, from 1986 to 1996. I have not been back. I have no plans to go back. (rationally, I know it is better now - murder and aids and crack have all gone down - human tragedy that wears on the soul) I have about ten short stories - all true, as is this one, about my time there. They are hard to write. (thanks to Walt Curtis and Ben Fisher for edits and criticism)

the god of new york


When I first lived in Manhattan I used to hang out at a bar on the lower east side or the east village or whatever you want to call it. The place was on First Avenue, between 9th and 10th street, and was called Downtown Beirut. It was a dump, it was a dive, a hole in the wall, a long and narrow shotgun shack, just wide enough for the bar, bathroom in the back, one Pinball machine, a video game, and a jukebox.

Looming over the patrons, attached to the ceiling, was a huge papier-mâché effigy, six foot head, with hands extended; a grey apparition flying through the bar. Every one called it “god.”

Downtown Beirut was owned by a neighborhood Polish family. The matriarch of the family, in her 70’s, would on occasion show up and look as strange as everyone else, conferring with the bartenders, counting receipts in the backroom. I don’t think they trusted their staff.

When I first started going there against the back of the bar was a classic liquor rack, from lower tier to upper tier, from bottom shelf to top shelf. A panorama of bottles backed by a wall to wall mirror. It had been a display of Bukowskian beauty, but the owners, believing the bartenders had been dispensing a too liberal supply of buy backs, had purchased a machine that hooked every bottle up into a glass and plastic computerized octopus. The tubes snaked from the bottles to a liquor dispenser, like the IV drips in Frankenstein’s hospital.

Downtown Beirut was next door to the Village Idiot, which had a clientele worthy of its name. You’d open the door and you would see a crowd of people standing in a circle around a big curly haired, wild eyed hippy, who had a quart to his lips. They would be chanting “chug, chug, chug.” I never went there.

Beirut had a better class of customers. The regulars were an interesting mix of lower east side characters. There was an old painter who came in and locked himself to the pinball machine and was said to have studied under Hans Hoffman. There was a tall creature from Belize who was a nurse, and nursed her drinks silently at the bar. I always thought she really was a woman, but everyone said she was a he. No matter. She never spoke much, smiled into her drink. When I got my ear pierced she noticed. Smiling, without saying anything, she gave me one of her earrings.

There was a midget named Mannie who fell in love with every woman who came into the bar. There was musician from Texas who was heading his way downhill, who made a living walking in front of cars. Every time I saw him, he limped more and more. He caught AIDS, ended up infecting his girlfriend. Two Satanist auto mechanics, one who was most proud that the lines in his hand made a natural pentagram. He would tell the story of how he showed his hand to a fortune teller. Her jaw dropped in shock. One of the bartenders, moustached and tough, played in a rockabilly band, Carolyn, the chief bartender, had green hair, and played in a punk band. GG Allin had covered her band’s song “Beer Picnic.” She was smart, had been on Jeopardy, but came in second. There was a tough cute girl from Brooklyn named Sherry, a couple of artists from Canada, musicians, painters, losers, lovers, squatters, a yuppie or two, an occasional tourist, lots more. I was a regular.

I usually hung out at the front of the bar, on the ledge on top of the radiator. You could look out the window at the street life passing by. With the drug dealers on the corner and the cold winter wind blowing, outside it could be a war zone. The dealers kept up their chants, the litany of pharmaceutical possibility. “loose joints, loose joints.” Methadone, tuinal, Methadone, tuinal.” But inside it was warm, sitting on the radiator.

One night I had gone out to make a collect call from the corner. The operator said “we can’t do collect calls from your location.” “My screen indicates you are calling from a prison” “All long distance calls through the phone are blocked” I held up the phone. “Listen,” I said. “I am on a street corner in New York.” “I am not in a prison.” She finally let the call through.

Everyone came through there. There was this scary tall east side woman who would mask or veil her face and was emaciated - anorexic. I would always see her looking masked and haunted like an omen , a silent apparition walking the streets alone. You could only see her eyes. She came in once, with a big, brown paper wrapped package. She sat down and unwrapped the brown paper and string. Her family must have sent it to her. She unwrapped it, went through it, and said, in the only words I ever heard her speak. “it’s nothing but food.” I made up a story about her, that her family knew how fucked up she was, anorexic and lost and haunted, and loved her and wanted to help but they couldn’t and didn’t know what to do and sent her this food.

So they pretended it was an artist bar, and every month or so they had a new art show. They gave the painter two free drinks a day, as long as their show was up. That was the story with god. The looming sculpture had been installed for just a short time, as part of an art show, but they kept it up there until the bar closed. They just needed to spray it with insecticide once in a while. It had become infested. It had been created by an artist from Toronto. He had been getting his two free drinks everyday for years, as his payment for creating god. Eventually he became an alcoholic. He moved back to Toronto. I wondered to myself. “Is that the price you pay for the creation of god?”

Sometimes we had wild times. Once an artist friend and I were cajoled out to Long Island by two women offering us Jack Daniels and a good time, which was had by all. They drove us out there, but in the morning we woke up, in Long Island, trying to figure out how to get the heck back into Manhattan. They just laughed. The bus, to the LIRR, to the subway. It took us two hours to get back.

But mostly I hung out there for the companionship, to cut the loneliness, to act like I had a place to go and reason to be there.

I would sometimes sit at the bar, and read my stupid poetry, and try to get someone to listen to it. Sometimes they did. I still remember a skinny black woman with dreads named pebbles. I read her my desperately bad poetry. I think it was about a giant vacuum cleaner that sucks people in to die. I think she got it. She sang a song to me, quietly, sitting next to me on a bar stool, looking into my eyes. For a moment it seemed the world had stopped.

So one day I was hanging out at the bar and Sherry shouts down the bar “My wallet is gone. That bitch grabbed my wallet.” The girl who had stolen the money was slight, dark haired and spoke with an accent. Sherry followed the thief back to the bathroom, kicked in the door. Sherry pulled her out and started pushing at the girl, and a crowd gathered, and they stripped off all of her clothes, looking for the stolen money. So she is standing there, naked, cowering, being pushed, hit, screamed at. All of a sudden someone noticed that her body was covered with purple patches. “Karposi’s Sarcoma.” “That’s AIDS.” Someone shouted. “Don’t touch her.” “You could catch it.”

The crowd went through the girl’s knapsack , and threw the contents on the floor. I noticed a French English dictionary. She had been living in New York long enough to catch AIDS and be a junky, but she still needed work on her English. Sherry never found her money. She said, “The junky must have passed it off.”

If you ever are stuck in New York and need to steal, if you are infected with AIDS and need to get drugs to cut the pain, get a friend in on the deal. Pass off the money quickly, that’s the way it is done.

The crowd kept humiliating her, spitting at her standing naked, shaking in the back of the bar. I said “isn’t this enough?” Finally they let her go. She pulled her scattered possessions together, got her clothes back on, went outside, and to the corner. I followed her out. I think this is the part of the story where you have to say that the person who was humiliated had dignity about her and that she was smiling, laughing with a dealer, She had passed the money off, and was probably going to buy crack or dope. I just looked at her, with her story going through my head. She looked straight at me. It wasn’t exactly like a smile. She said something. It sounded like mercy.

I guess this young woman had come to New York, capital of the world, from France, expecting to find love or sophistication or art, came in following the beacon into JFK International like a moth, took the wrong path, got infected with AIDS, ended up with dirt junkies and crackheads, stealing purses, and eventually would die alone in delirium in a hospital bed for indigents.

They eventually closed the bar, moved it down to Houston Street, started having live bands. But I never hung out at the new one, and after too long left New York for good. But I wrote this story about the old place. It ends like this.

The god of new york hangs over the ceiling of a lower east side bar, it is made of papier-mâché and chicken wire, and at night its dreams are the rats and cockroaches that scuttle through its skull.

james honzik


While you are here, if you want, you could look at my best work.
Experimental Portraits (Visual Art)
Epistemic Purchase (A poem)
Borges: The Golem (My translation)
Eagle Creek (A hiking essay)
The Time Factory -SF story and video

More of "The Time Factory


So you want to know, when time hit the fan, when the turn whirled, when the what when where, when the works went down. Well I’ll tell you. It was Thursday, pay day, when time is money, and money is time. And we stood in line, at 5 to 5, waiting for our per diems. Got to the front and I said “the envelope please.” This was the award ceremony for our meritorious service. I stuffed it in my shirt pocket, stepped quick to the time clock. And punched my card, out of there. Past the guard, through the detector, a quick scan. He says “you’ve been dusted today.” I say “I was down in it.” That was the usual, working with time machinery, sometimes you just get a little dust on you. Micro seconds, nanoseconds, not even the blink of an eye. Nothing to be found. Nothing to report, sir. Out the door. Work was over, business to attend to. (Half ran to the lot, ran to my Accurate “the on-time car” they call them. Some second shifter was pulling in next to me.) Too close to being late. I’m thinking “At that rate, you’ll soon be living in the camps, out of place, and out of time.”

All right, so I had a little business on the side. A few weeks before they had sent me back to the furnaces. Mask on, steel toed shoes, silver suit. Dressed to the hilt. Back in the works, where all turn to the furnace, the ore heated and distilled into 10 foot casks, lifted up on a chain, and the molten time poured into solid slabs. (It’s dangerous, but I loved it.) To see 10,000 years, on fire and smoking and glowing red, a thick liquid. And the hot spray is luminous, and the time heat just comes at you likes its alive. Well the furnaces were turned off though, this time, and starting to cool, and the bosses were none to happy about it. Something had jammed, a gear out of whack, and I was sent in to reconnoiter, to confirm, and to fix, as quick as possible. A time furnace is a simple thing, need be, must be, in the surge of time, nothing can survive; it’s just the fact that sooner or later, in time, with time, something happens. I found the problem in seconds, some hot time had splashed out when the vat was poured and hardened on the gears. Pulled the hammer out of my belt, gave it a whack, and the blob just knocked off, clean as a whistle. Just a pretty little piece of time. Scrap in the works. Well I got the job done quick, giving me a chance to look around at the inside of the furnace. You don’t get a chance to go into the time burn often. So I check out the bricks, turn round and round, and I see something glowing in a little crack. My heart started beating a little quick there, and I knew I shouldn’t but I went ahead and did, reached in with my glove, scraped around the side of the crack with my fingers, cleaning it around the edges, and pulled out a handful of mist. It was time fiber.

So sometimes I can’t sleep at night, and I start to think thoughts, crazy thoughts, about what was here before the time factory when they say the land was covered with trees and what will happen when the factory is gone. But that’s crazy talk because the factory was here always and will be here forever and will rise over the valley like a stone and steel castle until the end of time. But then I’m thinking, will time run out when we’ve bulldozed the hills and mountains and filled in the valley with slag. Or maybe like they say that there will be a new factory that will melt down this one and all of the land and all of the wasteland and we will be in some great furnace as fiery molten time. That’s crazy talk, I’m starting to think like a terrorist. So I turn on the TV. Like once I saw a ten most wanted. And they showed the number one most wanted, that crazy white haired old man. He was saying something so crazy like. “from now on, space by itself, and time by itself, have vanished into mere shadows and only a kind of blend of the two exists in its own right.” But then our president the time keeper, came on. His father was president, his son will be president, and he will keep the clooks in line, the clocks on time, on his time, on our time forever and ever, amen, for all whens. He set the record straight. We will always fight the forever war. We will win the forever war.

So with the fiber, spun time, I figure when the furnace broke down and splashed, a vent opened, the air rushed. It blew the hot drops of time in a finer than fine mist, into wispier than spider webs or the puffs of a dandelion and it somehow collected in the crack and cooled. One in a million, freaked conditions. The bosses say it’s a myth, no ones ever seen it, it’s dangerous, and it’s illegal. The old eyes say seek and you will find. And I had some on the fingers of my glove, cool and sparkling, with almost black invisible glow. I rolled it up in a little tuft and put it in my pocket. Imagine time spun out as fine as can be, take almost no time at all, take one second and heat it and melt it and stretch it out to 100 million years. Imagine arsenic, asbestos, Damascus silk, gold, morphine, belladonna, nitro. Neck it down to a Planck length. Imagine a civilization, rising, thriving falling, the loves and lives and failures and happiness of millions, families and mothers and sons and fathers and daughters, generations of thought and dreams, all melted down to fiery burning surge and then stretched out in a fine gossamer thread towards forever.

It was in my pocket. Time is money, money is time, and this was worth something. But in its being so fine, I would be having just little time on my hands, less than dust, and so make it past the guard.

I pulled up at the club, the lot was full, it was always full, but a spot opened up and the neon sign above blinked NOW, and blinked again NEW reflecting over the chrome and polished vehicles lined up. I paid my fee, and showed my pass, and entered into a room of flashing lights, music, sound, in time. The music was always new, like something you had never heard before, that spoke to you, that sang a name in a song, and you wanted to change your name, be the name, and everyone was the new name and the new now and you drink the time wine and style and your eyes are always full and color and motion and light. And when you were there it was like you were always there and rising and the night would never end. And you want to know, why I, your eye, was there.

Have you ever done a time head when she is doing time. And have her come into her hours as you are coming into her. Like her lips and body have a forever pleasure, and it’s like she is melting into you and the time is oozing out of her skin all over her body onto yours. That is why your eye was there, under the flash and color and sound.

So I am, and always have been, Mr. On Time, and I work for my time, and I do my own time, and so, I do a little business on the side, and search out at the time clubs, but if you are in on the need to know, the what and why and when and where, how it all went down, how it all came down. I can tell you the facts. I can’t tell you the whys, all I can tell you is that …..

I saw her across the room, with her long dark hair and her dark eyes looking straight at me so intense like she was looking right through me and I stared back at her like she was a gypsy vision and it was like in her face time stopped.

I thought she was a time head.
I walked toward her and she did not turn away.
“Do you have enough time for me”
She said “Any where, any place, any time.”
She said “take me to the overlook.”

And we drove there in the night, through the traffic, out into the wasteland, onto a broken road. We got out, climbed over an old stone fence. The ground was black stones and slag, and dust rose up in little patches and the stones crunched underfoot as we walk in the glow of the night clouds. And the stacks in the valley were flaming and the clouds glowed a luminous glow and we stood on slag hill and the air blew warm, with the scent of the smelters like a clear acid.

james honzik

The Time Factory


So I worked in the fucking time factory, before the dream bomb blew it apart. Well what the fuck do we have now, clocks unstuck, time out of joint, people not knowing where or when to do. I’d get up in the morning, my clock tick tock ringing me awake, then check my watch double check on the way in. Get in my car and drive at 7:37 exact. Traffic always good along the way, drive right past the scavengers. Out of time out of place. Get my coffee along the way and I was punctual. Punch the time clock in the door 5 minutes to 8:00.

I worked under Jack Smith, a veteran of the 5 day, 35 minute war. He was in the shit. When they stormed the clocktower, he was in the trenches, firing off minute missiles, the sleep gas hit, he started coughing, “what, when, where,” but got the mask on just in time. He kept on firing, punctual. You know the story then; we broke down the doors. We fought our way, up the steps, step by step, and hit the clockworks. The clooks, shit, slimey bastards, put up a fight, but we made it through. We reset their clock. You’ve heard the story. The last thing Johny On did, just bleeding, in his last minute, he moved that dial back the 35 minutes. He moved it back with his own hands. It was later on the generals, they changed the calendar back the 5 days. But Johnny moved that dial back. To on time, our time, the right time. 5 days, 35 minutes. Well worth fighting for.

So I’d punch in and work my shift. The ore came in, bulldozed off the scumlands around, hills, valley, trees, earth, mountains, we took it all in, by the cart load, by the truck load, by the train load, and into the smelter it went right nice. I’d catch it out of the corner of my eye once in a while, not that I stopped working, my hands kept moving, I did not stop, I tell you, but I’d see the sparks fly and the red glowing furnaces and the smoke rising and the big cranes moving down the line carrying the glowing bars of time. But its not like time would stop. I kept on moving. I kept on working.

I learned a lot about time from Jack there. I started out cleaning out the scrap, shoveling out the spirals of cut time from beneath the lathes. Not a second to be wasted. I shoveled the scrap, loaded into the bins, and moved the carts down the line, to be melted back into the raw stock. Later on a got my chance. I moved on to machine operation. I learned the ways of time, the proper pressure to apply, I sharpened the knives, and bolted down the solid hours, applied my tool with the correct pressure, and the hours spun and the knife stuck in deep, and the sharp edge of the cut time glowed metallic like.

So those were good years, I tell you. They were good years for all of us. I’d check in and work my shift and check out and day after day we were making time. The right time, our time. For everyone but the scavengers.

But you know about the scavengers. You get out of the factory and they’d be there, begging, pitiful like. “Can you spare a minute” “My children and I we just need a few hours, we have little time left” The thing was, most of them were probably time junkies. They would take any little bit of time they could get, grind it up, heat it, and inhale. The time would be vaporized in the heat, and for a few seconds, they would think they had forever.

The time cops would come around, once a week to clear them out, check there time, and if they didn’t have anything left, it was termination time. Just a waste of time, the time squads thought, but they should have gone around more often. Cause you know those scavengers, they are the ones who opened up the door, and let the dream bomb in.

That’s what they called it, a dream bomb, but what’s a dream if you don’t know when your going to have it, it’s like going to a party when you don’t know when exactly it’s going to start, and when it’s going to end. It could go on, until the sun comes up. It’s like your birthday, when you don’t know what day it is. You might act like it was your birthday everyday. How can anything happen if you don’t know exactly when and where?

We needed a terminator like they have out west to come in and tell them “you are all on a schedule, you are all on our schedule, or you are out of here.” But our clock cops were too soft to terminate.

The terrorists talked about their dream time. They said that there was no definite time. Any ones time was fine. You could spend all day, waste all day more like it, watching, doing nothing. Time was relative. Time shit. Well Jack and Johnny and all the boys fought and some died for our time, and our time is the right time, no mistake about it.

Not that there weren’t mistakes at the factory. Some people just did not get it. Not up to speed for the machinery. Not keeping on time with a safe eye. Like Martin Grbwoski. That polack in the back storerooms, they kept him there. They say he was working the cutting torch for two years, they thought he knew the job, they let him work the shift himself. Well, it turned out, he wanted to make the perfect cut, and we were on piecework you know, the factory had a big order, and no one watching him. He stopped wearing his safety glasses. He got up real close to that cutting edge, and the small particles, the hot grit of bits of time, sprayed back into his eyes, second by second, day after day. No one noticed. And now when you need a part, and go into the back room, that’s where they keep him now, you try not to look into his eyes. The doctor came in, said his eyes had been exposed to 182 years. That’s why you would try not to look into the deep black pits that his eyes had become. He keeps on watching you, something unnatural like, never turning away, with those old too old for any man eyes. You know, that’s kind of funny when you think about it. The scavengers, even the young ones, when they were lining up and begging for time, even though they did not have and never had any time, some of them, most of them, had those old old eyes. Not worth your time of day.

So I’d get off of work, head back to my time share, and watch the reports. The government, the president, they were looking out for us. You see every day. The southern block, their schedule was 1000 years off of ours. We were up to 2040 and they were in year 2047. They set there clock by the moon, for clocks sake! They did not use our good old industrial time. You could not trust them. And in our clock national, home of the on time, there were the terrorists. They had some leader, the number one most wanted. He said that it did not matter what time you were on. He said time was relative. He said “Imagine you were running so fast, you were running next to a beam of light.” Crazy talk.

He was just an out of whack old man, not even with the time to comb his hair, but those scavengers, they listened to him. And they came up with the dream bomb. They started off small, blowing off their dream bombs where we were bulldozing down the earth and trees to get the ore we needed to make time. The dreamers would go off, and the workers would just stop in there tracks, and think. They’d stop and look at the trees, and feel the breeze, and watch the clouds in the sky. Like they had too much time on there hands. They’d start thinking that it was not right to be taking down those trees, or wondering about the river, and would not want to go back to work. They were thinking crazy thoughts. “Get back to work,” the supervisors should have shouted. But the soops had been zapped by the dream bombs too.

So after work I would sit back in my time share and sip my 12 year scotch, bonded, bottled, dated, stamped, government approved, and fall to sleep. I would never dream. That’s what I tell you, not to even waste your sleep on dreams. Sleep is for rest, to get back to work. Once in a while I might wake up at night, sweats down my back. I was thinking of the terrorists. They were coming for our time. We should have stopped them then and there. Just lock down all the scavengers, put them all out of time. I might wake up for a bit, but I would lull myself back to sleep, listening to the time stamp down in the valley. 24/7 stamping the big forged chunks of time into shape. Stamp, stamp, stamp. A steady stamp. Like clockwork.

Continued

james honzik

Video - The time factory

Here is a video I created, based on part of my metallic sf novella.



Performance footage filmed at the Owl Parliment by David Acevedo - plus footage from the Internet Archive, altered, and shaped by me.

Video - David Acevedo: We are all dreams of the same being



I filmed this with David Acevedo in Forest Park, Portland, Oregon. It is one of the largest city parks in the United States, and for all practical purposes, it is in my backyard. David is a poet and writer (and Shakuhachi player) from Harlem.One hot summer day we walked up the wooded canyon, (wild trout live in the stream!) with completely different video planned, but this is what we ended up with. I cut up David's poetry, and flute playing, recombined them, with the green footage. All the sounds were recorded in a small chamber at the base of the ruin. This was a perfect day, something hard to describe, the moss and ferns and vegetation, the sound of birds and water, hanging out with a good friend. A day when life was good and I tried to capture it with sound and image.

Video - Zhalih: They Call




I was driving all over the state of Oregon for my job, photographing storefronts. Every so often I would pull out my own camera, catch a little piece of footage- the surf along the oregon coast, birds flocking in a nature preserve, water reflecting on the Williamette river at night.

Zhalih wanted to do a video of her work so I combined this footage with what I took of her on a photo shoot - we spent an afternoon walking around while she danced and posed and I laughed.

Video - Zhalih: up to you



My newest video - the max line (I was bicycling home at sunset - the colors were glowing), the steel bridge in portland (filmed from Walt Curtis's favorite spot on the Willamette), oak bottoms - a wetlands where I was hanging out with my friend Katie) and another video shoot with Zhalih (we hung out in the Northwest Industrial area, she climbed over piles of debris in the rain.

Zhalih's music again - it's a beautiful song.

Video - Oceanic Inversion



My friend Vahid had to speak at a conference in Santa Cruz and I drove down with him. I dropped him off, and spent a day at Point Lobos, one of the most beautiful small parks in the United States.

This time I had my video camera and took the footage.

When I got home, I took the footage, messed it up, fucked up the colors, and combined it with a sound sculpture I created from temporally distorted and filtered sounds of concrete and steel.