Eat Me: The Continuing Adventures of Blake and Burroughs and me and Jmac

Trust yourself
Trust yourself to do the things that only you know best
Trust yourself
Trust yourself to do what’s right and not be second-guessed
Don’t trust me to show you beauty
When beauty may only turn to rust
If you need somebody you can trust, trust yourself

Read more: http://www.bobdylan.com/us/songs/trust-yourself#i

As they drove out of 19th Century London, they found a naked Ginsberg hitchhiking along the shoreline.  JMac kindly lent the Beat Poet his coat and at a leisurely pace they proceeded around the coast to 21st Century Tokyo where it was forever night time.

http://kindawarped.com/?p=9370

Hidden among the trees next to a parking lot, Murakami’s home was a construction of two cargo containers at the foot of the Rainbow Bridge on the western shore of the harbor.

https://mytokyoguide.wordpress.com/2011/02/13/top-ten-tokyo-views/

When Sanaa pulled the Cadillac up next to an ragged opening in the chain link fence, Burroughs issued a warning, “Okay folks Murakami is a bit of a wacko and for the past couple of years he’s been eating himself alive so try not to stare.”

Emmerling chuckled, “I believe that this entire crew is a bit wacko, so I doubt that we’ll be staring at your friend.”

“No,” said Burroughs, “He’s in the middle of a protracted suicide, literally eating himself alive.  His wife has been amputating bits and pieces and feeding them to him.  Last I heard he’s down to his left arm and right leg, so don’t freak out especially if she offers you something to drink or eat.”

 

They quietly walked along the side of one container to a spacious wooden deck where the controversial literary genius Haruki Murakami sat on a pillow applying a red chop to a piece of calligraphy.

Burroughs tapped the steel door with his cane and without looking up Murakami said, in a pronounced guttural Japanese accent, “Boo-rough-san,” and then in flat American English, he asked, “What brings you to Tokyo, Uncle Bill?”

“I bring friends and perhaps a glimmer of hope,” said Burroughs as he led the crew onto the deck.  “Where there’s hope there’s life,” said Murakami, “or is it the other way around?”

“Works both ways,” said Ginsberg, “lovely work.”

“Thank you Allen, so glad to see you,” he said, “Not bad for a reborn lefty, if I do say so myself.”

Ginsberg did the introductions and Murakami was delighted to make the acquaintance of Debbie Harry, “I started out selling vinyl and I love the work you did with The Jazz Passengers - wonderful vocals from a truly authentic voice.”

 

Emmerling was about to take over the introductions when Murakami’s wife Yoko emerged from the tiny studio with an elegant tray of glasses and a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Lable.


Emmerling grabbed the Blue Label and passed it to Burroughs, who immediately understood the significanc e of the generous gesture. He was to collect up the women, charm them into a bacchinalia in the back room whilst he interrogated this odd Murakam and discussed what made him into the world's slowest suicide.

  

    "Cancer. In the brain. It ate up my vital organs but didnt kill me as i expected, " Murakami sighed as he ate a soup of his left calf muscle. I passed the salt when he requested it politely. He was a polite man, this is what I felt in his presence. Every gesture meant something, and most of them were directed at showing gratitude t o the outside world, what he called "the grace coming into my essence even from my own body, sustaining me , as i  consume it as it consumes me."

    I got it.

    "So when equilibrium is reached, when th e cancer or the self eating reaches the critical point, and the death process begins..."

    "I am well prepared for that. I have the Tibetan book of the dead on my kindle, " he admitted embarra\sedly.

   "Ok but when you reach that point, why not feast on your brain, a la HANNIBAL , yknow?" I asked. Ginsberg was sitting in the corner, still nude, admiring his phallus, stroking his hirsute skin in an ecstasy of what he called Whitmanian self love.

   He looked up when i said M. ought to eat his own brain.

   "The consumption of my flesh, " he said. "A not so novel idea. What about drinking his own blood?

   Jmac came in then with Ms A on his arm. "She wants to hang with the cool kids, " Jmac said, laying a lobster kiss on her cheek. She smiled. Sank to the floor next to Ginsberg, helped him on his mission.

   "Did I hear someone say something about drinking blood?" he said.

   "Your crustacean ears do not fail you. " I sighed and settled in for what promised to be a hell of a scene.

   Ms A inquired with her eyes if she could join me on the leather couch. I demurred and had her curled like a feline in my lap. She smiled up and said, "Give me that ".

    I handed her the THC tab.

    An invention of Blakes.

   "It is like smoking 25 joints ,my dear, in the space of a few hours."

   "Lets eat, " she said. And we all did.

   M. slurped his soup .

Views: 228

Comment by JMac1949 Today on August 29, 2015 at 7:01pm

I guess the ball is in my court.  R&L ;-)

Comment by James Mark Emmerling on August 29, 2015 at 7:08pm

the ball was thrown weakly, but well i think you will catch it.

sorry i couldnt expand further but i shall

and i like thinking of you working on the next masterpiece.

your contributions are exceptional and i shall reciprocate.

Comment by Margaret Feike on August 29, 2015 at 7:15pm

Does Murakami take himself a la carte? And what does he have for dessert? (He ought to author a cookbook before he completely consumes himself.)

Comment by James Mark Emmerling on August 29, 2015 at 7:20pm

m,

he eats by buffet . soup of calf, beef of heart muscle tenderloin a la carte if he wishes.

Comment by JMac1949 Today on August 29, 2015 at 7:26pm

Margaret,

Murikami and his wife Yuko are writing the cosmic cookbook for the end of life.  When she's not performing surgery and preparing his meals, she transcribes digital recordings of the hallucinations induced by his growing tumor and writes poetry about the irreplaceable spirit of their shared love.  More later.

Comment by James Mark Emmerling on August 29, 2015 at 7:32pm

comparable to e. b. browning?

Unless you can muse in a crowd all day
On the absent face that fixed you;
Unless you can love, as the angels may,
With the breadth of heaven betwixt you
;
Unless you can dream that his faith is fast,
Through behoving and unbehoving;
Unless you can die when the dream is past —
Oh, never call it loving!
A Woman's Shortcomings

Comment by koshersalaami on August 29, 2015 at 8:54pm
Novel concept
Comment by JMac1949 Today on August 29, 2015 at 9:01pm

If we can find an interested artist I see it as a graphic novel concept. ;-)

Comment by Zanelle on August 30, 2015 at 12:56am

The world's slowest suicide...no I think there are people who drink themselves to death and that goes even slower.  Maybe.  

Comment by Arthur James on August 30, 2015 at 5:06am

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