the elves attic

A call to arms



and toes

and legs and tounges and tits and the no no place*
and anything else you want to flaunt
baby
baby
my little baby thing



I am now in an active dialog with you, rather than spinning fictional stories. Going from a vortex of distracted slobbery and kind of hiding back away from my stories and keeping the personal connections buried too deep for most miners,

to a little worried about how my hair is today, if the animals will behave, if I can keep my temper and tears and toungue in check... is quite an adjustment.

I am not used to letting you in my rather thick and solid and soiled red brick walls, let alone opening the reinforced steel castle gates and just balls out waving everyone in. I feel kind of embarrassed and on and humbled by your sharing these interesting times with I, John The Boo Fist, your reluctant, though never-the-less exuberant host at this gathering of the minds and other more important organs.






I am ready to start my little blitzkreig. The chains to the mundane are almost all broken.... though there will always be more, and one day I wish to welcome them...


For now, though? I'll Sleep When I Am Dead (cool flick; the one guy kills himself after getting butt boned; he should have learned to take it in the ass and bide his time, wait for the right moment to shove in the shiv and reclaim his pride).

The primal survival, the reason our balls get tight and sweat breaks out on our foreheads and we grind our teeth and steel our gaze and sometimes, just some silly ass times....

LOVE THE WAR ITSELF!!!!




We know better, and it goes away.... Ask Walt Whitman why the nurse with the bloody hands could no longer write poetry that stirred up war in the souls of man? Ask Nathanial Hawthorne why he was sceptical of the idea that america needed a war to masculanize us?????

so, here is what I am up to: I am going to practice the shit out of a few of the new entries, some comedy, and even some of this latest mania poetry, then, when I am healty enough and doc says I will not end up madder than normal, I will hit the streets to start promoting my shows -- where I hope to sell prints of my art cheap, and my books.... should I ever get around to editing them. I almost never practice. I simply write too much to memorize. I mean, I can, but... why???? I want to read off the page, so what the b;eeep!~!!!

I will combine this campaign with political protest. Why not?? I always dreamed of organizing labor, making a difference. I ended up being that preacher con man momma predicted, the one she bought all those books for and tried not to brag about. You all know what I am talking about... I hope.... If not, get some therapy and better friends.., whatever it takes to remember THE MOTHER'S LOVE.


Some splendorific moments I sit here feeling connected to the hundreds of thousands that come in and check out my words, like you are feeding my unconscious thin tendrils of some misty grey vibe that bypasses my pea of a conscious and wafts straight into the chakra in my forhead AND emerges with my soul to create something new each and every precious moment.


(I am using the word 'soul' for lack of a better word to communicate these ideas... I think it might be universal enough to bypass the confusion of the Tower Of Babel, so we can start building that altar into the sky.... Thank You again Matt and Trey, if I can call you by your first names... well, obviously I can but... I get flustered around guys like you.... nothing like south park for the dog gone blessedness of our work.. ah, when the churches are watching South Park, you gotta know you're making The Spirit of Our Hunter proud).





Soul. There has to be a less loaded word -- spirit thingy???? Or something a lot cooler than that... uh, which, uhmm... I will have to secret at this point, like so much, for my stupid little security concerns... can't out nobody as a chipmunk Bleeper until I know for sure they want their kinks advertised, like Warren, who at the moment is in some sort of self-induced VD related coma -- he wanted to sleep through his latest round of cosmetic surgery and that ape takes the path less stumbled everytime).





Other days, I wonder why I ended up such a loser... Bad Monkey gets mad at me when I go on about my self-hatred, but it is there. Like all the other sides of me, it is a matter of balancing the effect of said quaility of my personality. I have done stuff I hate... like Adler says, behavior is different than intrinsice worth. I don't think I understood this until I decided to balls out just forgive everyone their trespasses.

Yea, the guy with barely any clothes, no possessions to speak of... no car, no goldfish, no nice boots or fancy glasses or hearing aides or any number of things I would like... the lacking taunts me tooo. the emptiness speaks of irresponsibility and not giving a f.... about objects. . . I trash everything. Get paint all over helll.... have dirt under my nails often enough that M. starts any intimate sessions of any sort with a stern rebuke about hygien.... (this is trueish).


I am glad that my voice is only becoming firm now that I am ready to go,"Oh, fuck, yea, I'll be a role model for the gonzo generation."

I want to give the kids some reefer sanity, the unions more room to grow, the hunted a chance to lay down their arms and go HOME...




So, the thrust of the Crusade of Pain becomes focused on bleep other than cook county, thank dog. Now for helping turn hearts and minds into a collective creature that can mature into the government of our most shared dreaaaams. Again, I am a boof.... but I would like to see Obama and Hillary in bed together in someway . . . better yet, some kind of foursome (I am sure bill will agree with me on this, what with his reknown for 'pussy talk' -- which seems to me like a way for two guys to turn each other on without having to actually get dick poked).


I am kind of flippped out by how many of those fragmented poems that I wrote during my mania were able to grow up into what are 'real poems,' for me. I haven't written too many of those lately. I came home from the hospital and practically just sat down at the computer and started trying to get my blog in order. 28 hours later I had a whole herd of new poetry.

Now, at first, I thought I was just going to erase all of them, mind y ou. I had no idea what I had wrote. I mean, I lost days and days totally, then others to living in ficitional dreams that were more real to me than the hospital's granite floors or the shrinks soothing words... possessed by something that was probably a drug reaction (wish I could chalk it up to something I know and am comfortable with, like an od, but it may have been the opposite because I kept puking up the pills. . . and then there is always the mad-making touch of the holy ghost -- which seemed a lot more ridiculous three weeks ago than it does right now in this foxhole). Lucky for me, the mania gave me a confidence that sustained itself for what seemed like forever. I was in some serious pain yet still able to write because of... well, whatever????


HOW CULTS START


He searches his inner self and detects only slight coffee/weed nerves, though he suspects there is more to the dancing hamsters than meets the eye, that he is being controlled somehow by the wagging little tails.


by scott ridgway


if you have little stories or whatever that you would like to submit to a compilation I am putting together,

email to johnsridgway@yahoo.com

I'll edit and then compile them into a book at lulu dot com that will be named Elf Shits. You can get them then at cost for like seven bucks or something, unless i can find someone astute enough to start offering me some money for my work... and then they will be free and we may even get paid for this crap. Stranger things have happened, perhaps... well, no, probably not, squeaks my inner insecurities.

Thank you again to all the people who have been emailing me pledges of assistance or whatever.

Every single hamster pelt adds to our stock!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Especially the tie dyed ones!

But, umm, whoever is sending over the dried labia's, man... you got the wrong ridgway. I did not order those, and further, I have never signed anything the green river killer... different ridgway. I am a slap stick serial killer, fake one.





* The No No place: this is one of the names that seth green and his writing partner considered before going with Robot Chicken (which was actually a dish on the menu at the restaurant where they were meeting; see those minds being inspired by everyone and everything).