Shattered Rossi

This post may trickle into the personal, but I hope it's still interesting to the outsider.

Things have irrevocably changed. Either a dare met with injury or a hypothesis dissappointed, one. We mixed a gross contradiction of unpretentious intellectuals into an apoplectic slurry of alcohol, stoned junta, world music, technologic fetishism, lawlessness, warts-and-all cosmopolitanism and philosophical ADD in one of the most anarchic cities in the country and eventually, some year later, we met the status quo's inevitable. There are no tears to shed for that first to die in outer space. We've all come out relatively unscathed with permanent memories to match any cinema and a bracing view of Your pathology. I suppose there is a comment or two to make:


The darts I wrote during this period, that of the House Trumbull, were arrhythmic, selective, unconscious and for the most part bad. But their spine thickened and I think at some point in the future I can approach them again fresh and it will be some of the best stuff I have ever written. An example I don't hate is next to my profile pic. The ideas for longer form literature were profuse, yet the opportunity for only the best of social situations (i.e. hanging out) were even more in number and I've been left with a thousand incomplete ideas. More importantly I have been convinced that ability and inspiration is not my deficit, distraction is.

The Son of Juan gave all of our extended family a moniker that presupposed a purpose: Guerrilla Detroit was supposed to be an idealized, unwritten creed for how skillfully none of us gave a fuck. I apparently misinterpreted it as a spit in the eye of the suburbs we all emerged from and a unified recruiting device for the like-minded. Nontheless, Guerrilla Detroit as a community group failed for more reasons than I care to mention, not the least of which is that everyone involved had little interest in pledging any degree of allegiance to a group of even the purest intentions. We coalesced precisely because we refused to under a thousand under circumstances. Just as well, none of us had a precise definition to reference. Nor did any of us have identical utopias.

Many people came through our doors, mostly invited and almost always welcomed. We saw every level of human depravity and decency. Wiped the mouths of grown men, housed strangers for a night or two, passed the dutch to whoever claimed interest. We threw parties of a certain magnitude, I stood on furniture and pumped my fist or threw that same furniture out into the ink. There was an often successful attempt to vent the resevoir frustration that comes with our age and occupation(s). In the end our all-embracing attitude was our end, let it be said that the devil may come in many forms but you can still recognize him a long way off.

We gained an interesting notoriety and I'll try not to admit that it makes me smile.

Most of us are now leaning towards a more solitary life, I'm looking forward to a few lonely nights where I can finally allow the words to come out, it's been since the suburbs that I wrote 2,000 words in a sitting. The rest of us all have our own destiny we're trying to carve or force or sumbit to.

However, everything does not end, thankfully, and you can still find me and mine on Friday nights grubby and shouting about moral relativism, AK47, the infinite. Perhaps breaking your good china. We'll still be somewhere near the center of the revelry, halfway thru a case of Pabst with a lot of shit to do in the morning.