Ken

http://badrecordingcompany.com/ken/

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Project-Ken/111434965593279

Ken.

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January 20

This morning I sat through the inauguration upstairs, the bosses smug in their pajamas, barking at the television, slurring ejaculates firing out of their fat lips. What a thing to witness. I live among Palin supporters, old guard Republicans who extol Christian virtue out one side of their mouth while spitting vitriol always out the other. Obama a terrorist, Obama not even a citizen, the “negro situation,” the elegance of Laura Bush, the accolades due her husband. I left the room after a comment about how blacks might finally get their acts together, went to pull weeds from the superfluous garden of these superfluous people, to tend to shoots & weeds & improve their lives even as they go about the deleterious business of condemning everyone else’s. At 11:30, I rose from weeding, nauseous with the morning, with what I was doing. I came in & packed for an hour, ate & went back to work. The neighbor stopped over in the afternoon to join the chorus & pitch polemics at
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Crow Pass Crossing

There was a point there, sliding on my ass down a hundred-yard snowfield rippled with minute waves of ice & buried rock, when I wondered if perhaps I ought to reorient myself in order to avoid slamming into the jagged boulder looming below. & there was a point while loping across another pitch of snow sidelong wherein I noticed I might well slide a mile off course if I didn’t hit the footholds. There was incessant rain, beating down from the report of the starting pistol until the finish line, & a fierce firn wind weaving through the willows, the Devil’s Club, the sedge-green grass. & the feeling on the far shore of Eagle River of wholly numb legs wobbling underneath me. I completely ate shit a half dozen times, tripped & recovered a dozen more, stubbed my twice-broken toe, stepped knee-deep in beaver ponds, slid & slopped through mud, leapt over twenty piles of fresh bear scat & clutched looming thistles to right myself, committing the ensuing mile each tim
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June 13

Morning, the sky again threatening rain, though idly, quietly, with none of the rumble rumble of other skies. Another full night of sleep, in a bed, with walls around me, however paper thin. Now, at the kitchen table, I hear Roy’s intermittent snores through the sheer folding door between us. Or earlier at two a.m., when he got home from work, the successive clicks of the beer cans opened & downed in a matter of minutes. We will know each other’s habits well, I suppose. Yesterday afternoon took one of the government bicycles from our white tent up to Headquarters to obtain a pass on one of the tour buses for tomorrow. Rode down to the Wilderness Access Center afterwards, near the entrance, to translate it to a ticket for a ride tomorrow to Eielson almost sixty miles into the park (no vehicles other than tour buses are allowed past mile fifteen). Half of me balks at voluntarily committing to more time in a vehicle, but the other half recognizes where I am again & spurs me convin
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