About Alien Idiom

Here we go. I am Kuf, an alien living inside the mind of the human, Happy Julius Pipe.

That’s me on the left–if I were corporeal. Happy is the one with his arms crossed. He has a terrible mustache.

My situation is a blur that hasn’t come into focus yet. When I landed in his mind, I was immediately appalled. It is like walking the halls of a museum full of shit art–badly curated shit art. Happy Julius Pipe is the curator of it all–the personification of paint drying on a hot August night, brown walls, damp uneven floor. But that is my “cross to bear,” as they say.

Bound to suburban America in the 2020s, Happy lives at the height of his unremarkableness–in an era of remarkable change. As the world becomes something different, Happy–either incapable of change, or simply afraid of it–holds steady with his bullshit.

He carries around a lot of bullshit.

He has a wife, Renetta, who is rather astounding. This newsletter is not about her. Happy and Renetta have two sons, call them R1 and R2, who will struggle to define themselves in the unsteadying uncertainty of this world. This newsletter is also not about them.

It’s about Happy and how he worries about them–about everything, really. And in case you didn’t know: worry is the design aesthetic of the human mind.

Let me help you picture the human, this Happy Julius Pipe rocking on the front porch of his house in Suburban America. He’s only 40 something, the bastard. Get a real goddamn chair. You’re not 80. But the fucker keeps going, contemplating his brief little candle while the outside world loses its mind. I can hardly compliment him, except for this one small thing.

If I point a spotlight deep inside his mind-hole, I find writing. There is music. Lyrics. A shit ton of unfinished prose. Further in, I see jagged lines of disjointed fuckery. Some of it is interesting. I’ll even admit I enjoy it. Perhaps you will too. Especially its point-of-view, the universe taking shape and the handsome, charming, interdimensional being trapped there.

I am that handsome interdimensional being, or “alien” if you prefer that term. I don’t know how I got here. I don’ t know how I’ll escape. But if I think about this situation, wandering the shit art with hidden chambers of pleasing fuckery, then I’ll admit that I’m not so dissimilar from the shitbag whose mind is my home.

We are both stuck, searching, moving towards something–trying to express ourselves creatively.

I write a Substack called Alien Idiom where I chronicle the demons (or daemons) I fight in Happy’s mind. Happy–the unremarkable shitbag that he is–is the reluctant hero of my narration.

I gather Happy’s unfinished creative scat, edit it, and publish it. You will find his stories and songs, as I put them in completed forms, at HappyJuliusPipe.com. You can read about his struggles here at Alien Idiom.

I will also share my origins on Xobtihs, a slice of space-time that was my home before I landed in this shitbag’s mind.

Stay tuned reader, stay tuned. I’ll update you once a month.

Kuf out