TOUCHMEDONOTTOUCHMEIAMALIVE

Tuesday, August 25, 1970

Fig. 011

A letter from the great Admiral Admiral to his lover upon the discovery that she was expecting:

My Dear,

I do not understand how you expect me to allow this beast to live. Do you not understand the virility it will be born into? Born upon? Born with? Surely its head will explode with a vast knowledge and understanding like none before. Will it claim our ailment? Will this abomination last forever. Is that it? Do you need a toy? Well I will feed you this with utmost sincerity: I will kill it the moment it is born if you do not do it before then. He cannot exist. A third coming, it would be. The world would crush him and I cannot allow it.

With vicious anger and steady love, yours,
Admiral Admiral

Fig. 010

From the diary of a man full of demons:

Something is burning. Fret not, my dear. I've only set fire to your eyes. You will never look at me in that way again. Never. \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

You're bleeding now. No you aren't. You can't bleed. I find it an absurd idea that someone so cold could actually have blood coursing their veins. You never saw me standing there. You were so firmly rooted in your new found ideals that you forgot the old and forged yourself a new future. Fuck your new future. You're a joke. \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

I have a life that you should be calling up and wreaking havoc. The spare is locked in the closet. I'll need a backup. That much is certain. Certain. Nothing is certain? You have been cast aside. \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

FUCK

Sunday, August 16, 1970

Fig. 009

I'm three shots of rum in. Foreign rum from a tall shot glass. Rum that kicks you so hard in the face that you can only shed a tear and ask for more. She is lying on the bed, surrounded by an ocean of comforters and hand-knit blankets. She is beautiful. The colors of the blankets become an aura of sorts, or a border that will properly display her for all that she is worth. I lie down next to her. It is only then that I realize the lights are off. I am at a loss as to how such a blatant trait of the room has gone unnoticed. I turn over. Our face are close. Close in the sense that they are touching. That close. I can feel her hair on the side of my face, attempting to tangle itself with my recently shortened beard. The hair has nothing to work with, and so it tickles my face to show its anger. Her lips are slightly below mine. I've been looking at them all night. Longing for them. I use my nose to push her nose and bring our lips together. Fireworks. A typical cliche, but the only way I could possibly explain it. The rum did not prompt this. We prompted this. The rum just gave me the guts. Thank God for rum. It's not long before hands are under clothing, exploring new places. Her nipples are that small, soft type that I love. They resemble a the feel of a balloon that's exterior has been raised due to suction. If you cannot imagine it then I can only pity you. Shirts are gone. Ok, all the clothes are gone. A messy heap on the floor that won't be bothered until morning. And away we go. Later she has her head buried into my chest. It concerns me that she may be immovable. I eventually fall asleep.

Tuesday, August 11, 1970

Fig. 008

Something found written on a napkin in a diner:

There was toast in the oven.
We were having breakfast with your cousin.
Did I tell you she looks better
In that tight blue sweater?
Plus she's ten years younger.
What you mean, she's only 15?
You really think she's not ready?
She got a profile on the internet.
Talks about how much she loves sex.
I think tonight I'll make her mine.
Sleep alone, I think you'll be fine.
Or you could find another man?






Nah, I didn't think so.

Monday, August 10, 1970

Fig. 007

This is a letter from the great Admiral Admiral to his love upon her return from space:

My dearest,

I am not haunted. You are not my lover. We fell apart long ago. Remember, it's as I told the boy. You left me behind. I mean, sure. I didn't really destroy everything. Maybe I made all that shit up. You know I need you to be capable of such an end. I can't die without you. And I can't kill you, so I'm stuck just living on. This really is your fault. You know that right? You put us here. You never should have ended things with me. That's what built this passion. You should have given me everything I wanted. Your body. I needed you. You were supposed to be a snack of sorts. Just one little nibble, then it was on to the next one. But I couldn't have you. That made two. And I picked one. But even after all this time, can you still not give yourself to me? I've seen it, but can I really not touch? Your breast, so round and perfect, not too large and amazingly perky, beckons to me. You figure, as if it were sculpted by God himself, beckons to me. I have lusted far too long. I am almost ready to just take it. Fret not, my love. We know it is no longer a matter of lust. I need you so much closer. Every passing year our link grows. I practically am you, now. The deeper in love I go, the more in lust you become. It is now I who must turn you away. It has become a disgusting game of hard to get. I can't have you because you do not love me. You cannot have me because you do not love me. I wish you'd stayed out to space. Oh, and there you are. I suppose I'll seal this up and hand it to you then. Oh, one last thing. Ignore the man with the blade. He only wants to help us make things better. You'll live. I cannot allow him to kill you. But you'll feel once more. You'll feel as you've never felt before.

Forever yours,
Admiral Admiral

Sunday, August 9, 1970

Fig. 006

A strain of thoughts as allowed by the high priest at St. Peter in Walton, MI:

The walls are covered in stains colored various shades of brown. I think a few look the color of rust, like blood after it dries. This is home. The window unit air conditioner hums it's soft, persistent whir. It is music to my ears. This is home. The carpets are ripped and torn at various spots, where animals had tried to find something deeper underneath. This is home. Your body is lying on that torn carpet at the foot of the bed. It is naked and battered and bloody. You look happier now that I have ever seen you. This is home.

Fig. 005

A piece of something that someone wrote for another person:

stick to the things you know,
like grapes and doing blow.
this habit has got you down,
so i'm constantly fucking around
with the girls in the alleyway;
skinny and frail but fun to play.
plagued in the back of a cadillac
just to get myself back on track.
yea, to get myself back on track!
to.get myself.back.onTRACK.

calm me down while i wait for you to turn around

Fig. 004

An excerpt from a man's diary:

I'd been preparing so elegantly for the day. I'd dug that hole so deeply into my chest, using nothing but a burnt and broken wooden spoon, allowing the splinters and I to become one. This slight, sharp pain meant nothing as I thought of the gentle moments ahead. I'd used exact measurements, makings sure not to miss one single millimeter. I needed you there, and I needed you there perfect. Ah, this would not work now. All that had sat upon my mind for the past week was our last encounter. How you sat and you pulled at the hairs on my chest. I could tell you were searching for a trap door of sorts. A way to let yourself inside. You were anxious and ready to claw your way in. The way you pressed your face into my side, trying to hold the scent of me. The scent of us. It lingers to this day, bitter and strong, holding the very essence of everything we had. The way that you gripped me so tightly as if by letting go you'd fall off the earth and and be forced to watch it spin delicately in place as you spun violently out of place. My longing for such action to take place has led me to this moment. And now you have gone, leaving me with a longing so great as I have become so much more a part of nature. A longing that exists in vain, as you are no longer the one I long for. I will feel the pain of every tree chopped at the base by the dull, sickening thud of an ax. I have become so much more a part of nature. I will shed a tear for every leaf delicately plucked from its stem as I recall the stark and disgusting events of that day. If only the tree knew, as I know, that letting them inside, doing the work for them, has such a low success rate. And I have become so much more a part of nature. It's terrifying and lovely and blinding and I want it more than life itself. Now I'm watching the earth grow smaller as I float further and further out. I can still see you, and all of those you surround yourself with. But only for a moment longer. Then you are gone. I have become so much less a part of nature.

Saturday, August 8, 1970

Fig. 003

The afterword, as told by the lesser known blacksmith and felon, John Riley:

I am cold. The room is dim, the only light coming from a lamp made almost 40 years ago. It's shape amuses me, along with the jeweled tassels that hang from it's shade. I am longing. I don't know. Maybe, just maybe, I am lusting. I can't really tell the difference sometimes. I know that I want someone to lie with. Literally just lie. But now that it crosses my mind, sex wouldn't be bad either. I am riddled with bug bites. They itched at first. I am baffled at how I seem to love one, want to lie with another, and fuck a third. Well, actually, I'd do all three with the first, only two with the second, and again all three with the third. Maybe all three with the third. I still can't figure out where my head has placed me for this. I saw the man dragged lifelessly from his cell this morning. It was quite a sight. He was riddled with scratches. Apparently the bites had not lessened in pain for him. I can't leave the prison yet. Not for another 3546334529 minutes. And even then, I'll only get 240 minutes out. Then it's right back there. Here. I really like these bars, I must admit. Nah, fuck the bars. They are too shiny. I want those rusted looking ones. Retro looking. that's the cool thing, right? My stomach hurts. I'm either hungry or I have gas. I never really can tell. Why the fuck is it so cold? It's not even December. I thought it only got cold then. I guess if we had gone to that 14 month system it would have been cold longer. We would have moved then, though. Fuck this place.

Fig. 002

A passage written on the cell walls of an unknown prisoner approximately 4578793 minutes before he died:

Aha! The staircase! It is actually empty! Oh, by the way, did I tell you I miss you? I do. There are no men in here at all. It's completely fucking empty. I was tricked. But I heard them! I know that I did. With their guns and their elephant machines and their horns they did make such a ruckus. It was beautiful. It is not here. Oh, but here is the real issue: you, too, are not here. What is this? Since when have you been able to force away the great stirrings that a volcano will evoke in you. We traveled these together for such a long time, waiting for the burn. This was our alcohol. Our ether. Some used ointments, but we used fire. Melt away the old, make way for the new. A simple concept. Yet now I sit here in empty staircase, next to an empty chair, and in front of an empty chamber where no musician plays and no animal roars. I dare you to explain it. But you could not. You are not here. I miss you.

Monday, August 3, 1970

Fig. 001

This is a letter to the boy Brian Hall upon the news of his running away from home. It was sent by the mariner known as Admiral Admiral. To this day we have no evidence of him ever actually commanding a fleet and therefore we assume the title is, very much like the good Admiral, a complete sham.

Dear Boy,

I knew what I was getting into. I told her I didn't mind waiting. I love her. It wouldn't be... Wait. Let's go back to that first statement. You see, I didn't actually know at all. But fuck, I sure thought I did. I mean, I could stay alive until she passed. I'd be there whenever she needed me, through every up and down. And when her time was up, finally mine would be too. So I made a deal. I'd not die until she did. But let's be real, when you make a deal like that, the thought "Oh shit, she might live forever," doesn't exactly cross your mind. And it's a damn shame. I wish it had. And here's the thing: I don't even age. I made sure of it because I thought it made the most sense. If she is 80 and I'm 82 then how can I take care of her. So I stopped at 37. So did she. Maybe that sounds cool to you. Living forever, not aging any more, but it's awful. Things get boring. The world changes, sure, but not fast enough. So I make things happen. I break things, I suppose. I spark revolutions. I make buildings fall down. I burn bridges in a literal sense. And she is all that stops me from setting this world ablaze. Well, she was. I'm sorry, you still have no idea what this is about. The shuttle that went up yesterday. You know, it was all over the news. Huge deal. A group of people are going to Saturn to look for oil. And then they are setting up base on the space station. Not the small one. Not that pathetic, frail looking hunk of metal that was put up there back when the USA had a space exploration program. The big one. The one that looks like a fucking moon. Look up, into the sky. You see it? Yea, that's the one. It's absurd. I really don't understand why we need a second planet. Well, I guess I do. But They don't know what I'm going to do. They haven't one god damn idea. Anyway, again I veer from my point. She is on the shuttle. Lucky fucking her. She left me here. After all of it, she left me here. Thing is, she's kinda pissed at me. I told her why we stopped aging, and she basically told me to fuck off. As if I should apologize for trying to make sure she never got hurt. Bullshit. So anyway, tonight. Tonight the world dies. So quit packing your bags, kid. No use in running away from home now. Go back out there and tell your mom you love her.

Forever hers,
Admiral Admiral