Filter
I dream of lions on the beach, of heat and waves and scent and sand. I wake to the sound of sharks slowly devouring my dignity and purpose. By the first lights of dawn, I know I'm a prepubescent boy being wholeheartedly dishonest with my father for the very first time, by way of the artful storytelling of my thievery of a beautiful bushel of apples and the blackmail of the neighborhood bully, the butcher's son. This is, apparently, the journey of the Prodigal Son as he wanders from righteousness and good only to later return again, older and wiser because of the experience. I grow up, however, to realize I could kill a man simply by putting a gun up to his head and pulling the trigger. Cain never stops killing Abel.
Mama! Sometimes I wish I'd never been born at all. But the jig is up, the news is out, they've finally found me, and now they want to kill me, eat my brains, and steal all my powers in the process. At least I know how much you care for me, dad. Unfortunately, so does the federal government. And I'll never grow to know why the average man toils so, from cradle to grave, a slave to his own ego and the machines of this world, and never truly a man because of it. Such is the curious nature of the Amazon ants, and I am just a steppenwolf. But then, I've had it up to the gills and I cry while the milk still spills. Are you really all going to just leave me here to die? When all I want to do is turn around? When I'm going down to sleep on the bottom of the ocean, because I couldn't let go when the water hit the setting sun? Now I'm lying in the sand, catching teardrops in my hand. Please, please just let me go!
I'm not dead yet. I can dance, I can sing, and I can still subtly and shamelessly flirt with my good friend Gregory, who may actually sympathize with a government pilot suffering from synesthesia and a cough, for once. At least she's getting boobs out of the deal, and all without having to confront a Latino mafia, a French female pimp, a sadistic murderous penisless inbred man, or AIDS in the process. All I wanna do is dance. It starts with the heart; it starts with the hips. So take a chance, take that chance, with this gentle impulsion and feathers on my breath.
Life is like a river, ever-flowing, ever-changing. I've been floating down this river for two weeks without my lover. Yet I gaze and tremble at the stars and feel my heart begin to overflow. I don't own emotion; I'm just borrowing this life for a time. Gods help me if I neglect to pay the rent!
Despite all and my growing madness, I survive and thrive to live in Paris for awhile, trying to find myself and my art and my purpose again, which I really have yet to lose. I learn that everybody really just wants to be a cat. I learn how to imitate anarchist drunk geese. I learn that the Queen of the Ants is to wed Italy in the 1930's and the asses and fairies will just have to suffer with it. Eventually, I'll learn to look for the simple, bear necessities, and that actions speak louder than words, especially on paper. I'll reminisce about the experience for years to come. After all, I am a writer and fond of a good drink.
This is my memory in the moonlight, my hermaphrodite of a muse, my angel of music. Shall I attempt to trick the deer the way the cougar does, or shall I simply stick to what I know best, which is the art of imitation and the desire to grasp the knowledge of all things within my tiny, awkward hands?
I go from speaking English to Spanish to French to Italian to Greek. A glass of wine turns to blood. Now I'm on the edge of the world at Aulis, waiting for the sacrifice of a maiden strangely resembling the recently, brutally-slaughtered, beautiful sacred deer of Artemis. On the very edge of the world, I'm watching the heart-wrenching grief of a proud father and leader helpless against the unified will of those he leads. All this to appeal to a bloodthirsty mob bent on war against distant brothers and nearer rapists, and for favorable winds to the land of barbarians, of Helen and Paris, of heroes and gods and death and deceit. Why do they so eagerly throw their lives away for a woman? Why does a woman so eagerly throw her life away for all of them? They will soon fight brutally with the honor of tender roses on their chests. Blood stains the sacred ground twice, and the still winds stir.
Well, no one told me about her, the way she lied. Nobody told me about her. How many people died, how many people cried? But it's too late to say you're sorry. How would I know, why should I care? Please don't bother trying to find her: she's not there!
Briefly, I'm a yearling doe, coming of age, learning of death for the first time, to kill and to be killed. This is empowerment; this is relative freedom. Life is death; death is inevitable, and at best you can choose to make it your temporary ally and friend, rather than a terrifying beast always nipping at your supple heel. Choose to meet death, choose to quit before you are fired, or choose to continue to experience and see where the roads take you. This is indeed a difficult lesson. Indecisiveness, stubborness, and impulsiveness collide; creation, protection, and destruction collide.
I later set sail in my old Impala to wander a land of giants, a land of people the size of a pen, a castle in the sky (where there dwells a lady dressed all in white, and nobody cries or talks too loud), then, to a road paved-in-gold and blessed by a never-ending, mild, exotic summer, where, with my brother, my sister, my foil, my twin, my other-half, my Self as company, I can go anywhere and do anything I please. After all, I am as the wandering samurai in Tokugawa-era Japan, mocking a monk to save a child from a bandit (who plans to make the child into a nice stew and leather gloves and shoes). When the children wake they will not find us, for we left before the sun came up this day. So let's drink up the wine now and soon get to talking, for we now have more important things to say:
In the end, I love both the giant (what a prize, what a catch, with a body like a battle-ax) and the genius (that perfect frown, honest eyes, we ought to...), for my heart would feel to be a crime if...
I tell you, I confront the still-beating heart of the man I loved and killed (at least it seems so to me, and I tell you, I am not mad, oh no!). I can still taste you on my lips and smell you in my clothes, of cinnamon and sugary and softly-spoken lies. You never know quite how to look through other people's eyes.
Tomorrow we'll wake to the sounds of rain falling on a tin roof, then walk through a field where the yellow grass grows knee-high, on that cloudy day.
I tell them that I come from the water. I tell them I know Charles Wallace, the unicorn, and the cherub. I tell them my name is "Nobody." I say that even nothing is something, as nihilism inevitably destroys itself in the very process of its creation. We simply can't divide by zero, Houston. Burn all the books (they have too many names and psychosis), and they will never know. Besides, I have the sky pirates, the giant dragonflies from the toxic jungle, the squirrelfoxes, the shape-shifting raccoons, the nimble and strong red-elk steed, the war-proud boars, the defectors from Mussolini's air force, the lone fighter-pilot cursed to resemble a pig, the foreign prince cursed to live and bounce as a scarecrow, the great wizard Howl and the fire-demon bearing Howl's childlike heart aiding me through it all. What more could I ask for?
Where will this end? Will I wander back to the comforts of a city by the sea, as if I were a child still? There is nothing left for me there now but a cold chill. Will I stay awhile and help the feminists rebuild Irontown, or am I still too sore from the sin by man against the gods of nature and my adoptive kin, the wolves? I have lost my mother now, and the mother I never had, but I've gained an ally and possibly a lover. By midnight, will all I want to do is ride my bicycle? But I really do like Star Wars! Will you give me a choice? Will I see how far down the rabbit hole goes and end with the beginning? Does the Queen of Hearts really speak better French? Or will I choose the road less traveled-by and start something slightly new, or so old that it seems so now? Will all this filter through me and be transmitted outward for the next victim-of-a-mind to absorb, or am I just slowly learning what has always been the truth? Which is, simply:
I'm a complete nutter.
BAH. Brains. x__________________X Feel free to ignore this (unless you know much of what the hell I'm talking about... then, feel free to add to the madness). I'm just getting it out of my system before I ESPLODE.
(And ZOMG. Could you imagine the effort it would take to properly cite all the references in this lengthy rambling about books, movies, television, music, and writing? =0)
Mama! Sometimes I wish I'd never been born at all. But the jig is up, the news is out, they've finally found me, and now they want to kill me, eat my brains, and steal all my powers in the process. At least I know how much you care for me, dad. Unfortunately, so does the federal government. And I'll never grow to know why the average man toils so, from cradle to grave, a slave to his own ego and the machines of this world, and never truly a man because of it. Such is the curious nature of the Amazon ants, and I am just a steppenwolf. But then, I've had it up to the gills and I cry while the milk still spills. Are you really all going to just leave me here to die? When all I want to do is turn around? When I'm going down to sleep on the bottom of the ocean, because I couldn't let go when the water hit the setting sun? Now I'm lying in the sand, catching teardrops in my hand. Please, please just let me go!
I'm not dead yet. I can dance, I can sing, and I can still subtly and shamelessly flirt with my good friend Gregory, who may actually sympathize with a government pilot suffering from synesthesia and a cough, for once. At least she's getting boobs out of the deal, and all without having to confront a Latino mafia, a French female pimp, a sadistic murderous penisless inbred man, or AIDS in the process. All I wanna do is dance. It starts with the heart; it starts with the hips. So take a chance, take that chance, with this gentle impulsion and feathers on my breath.
Life is like a river, ever-flowing, ever-changing. I've been floating down this river for two weeks without my lover. Yet I gaze and tremble at the stars and feel my heart begin to overflow. I don't own emotion; I'm just borrowing this life for a time. Gods help me if I neglect to pay the rent!
Despite all and my growing madness, I survive and thrive to live in Paris for awhile, trying to find myself and my art and my purpose again, which I really have yet to lose. I learn that everybody really just wants to be a cat. I learn how to imitate anarchist drunk geese. I learn that the Queen of the Ants is to wed Italy in the 1930's and the asses and fairies will just have to suffer with it. Eventually, I'll learn to look for the simple, bear necessities, and that actions speak louder than words, especially on paper. I'll reminisce about the experience for years to come. After all, I am a writer and fond of a good drink.
This is my memory in the moonlight, my hermaphrodite of a muse, my angel of music. Shall I attempt to trick the deer the way the cougar does, or shall I simply stick to what I know best, which is the art of imitation and the desire to grasp the knowledge of all things within my tiny, awkward hands?
I go from speaking English to Spanish to French to Italian to Greek. A glass of wine turns to blood. Now I'm on the edge of the world at Aulis, waiting for the sacrifice of a maiden strangely resembling the recently, brutally-slaughtered, beautiful sacred deer of Artemis. On the very edge of the world, I'm watching the heart-wrenching grief of a proud father and leader helpless against the unified will of those he leads. All this to appeal to a bloodthirsty mob bent on war against distant brothers and nearer rapists, and for favorable winds to the land of barbarians, of Helen and Paris, of heroes and gods and death and deceit. Why do they so eagerly throw their lives away for a woman? Why does a woman so eagerly throw her life away for all of them? They will soon fight brutally with the honor of tender roses on their chests. Blood stains the sacred ground twice, and the still winds stir.
Well, no one told me about her, the way she lied. Nobody told me about her. How many people died, how many people cried? But it's too late to say you're sorry. How would I know, why should I care? Please don't bother trying to find her: she's not there!
Briefly, I'm a yearling doe, coming of age, learning of death for the first time, to kill and to be killed. This is empowerment; this is relative freedom. Life is death; death is inevitable, and at best you can choose to make it your temporary ally and friend, rather than a terrifying beast always nipping at your supple heel. Choose to meet death, choose to quit before you are fired, or choose to continue to experience and see where the roads take you. This is indeed a difficult lesson. Indecisiveness, stubborness, and impulsiveness collide; creation, protection, and destruction collide.
I later set sail in my old Impala to wander a land of giants, a land of people the size of a pen, a castle in the sky (where there dwells a lady dressed all in white, and nobody cries or talks too loud), then, to a road paved-in-gold and blessed by a never-ending, mild, exotic summer, where, with my brother, my sister, my foil, my twin, my other-half, my Self as company, I can go anywhere and do anything I please. After all, I am as the wandering samurai in Tokugawa-era Japan, mocking a monk to save a child from a bandit (who plans to make the child into a nice stew and leather gloves and shoes). When the children wake they will not find us, for we left before the sun came up this day. So let's drink up the wine now and soon get to talking, for we now have more important things to say:
In the end, I love both the giant (what a prize, what a catch, with a body like a battle-ax) and the genius (that perfect frown, honest eyes, we ought to...), for my heart would feel to be a crime if...
I tell you, I confront the still-beating heart of the man I loved and killed (at least it seems so to me, and I tell you, I am not mad, oh no!). I can still taste you on my lips and smell you in my clothes, of cinnamon and sugary and softly-spoken lies. You never know quite how to look through other people's eyes.
Tomorrow we'll wake to the sounds of rain falling on a tin roof, then walk through a field where the yellow grass grows knee-high, on that cloudy day.
I tell them that I come from the water. I tell them I know Charles Wallace, the unicorn, and the cherub. I tell them my name is "Nobody." I say that even nothing is something, as nihilism inevitably destroys itself in the very process of its creation. We simply can't divide by zero, Houston. Burn all the books (they have too many names and psychosis), and they will never know. Besides, I have the sky pirates, the giant dragonflies from the toxic jungle, the squirrelfoxes, the shape-shifting raccoons, the nimble and strong red-elk steed, the war-proud boars, the defectors from Mussolini's air force, the lone fighter-pilot cursed to resemble a pig, the foreign prince cursed to live and bounce as a scarecrow, the great wizard Howl and the fire-demon bearing Howl's childlike heart aiding me through it all. What more could I ask for?
Where will this end? Will I wander back to the comforts of a city by the sea, as if I were a child still? There is nothing left for me there now but a cold chill. Will I stay awhile and help the feminists rebuild Irontown, or am I still too sore from the sin by man against the gods of nature and my adoptive kin, the wolves? I have lost my mother now, and the mother I never had, but I've gained an ally and possibly a lover. By midnight, will all I want to do is ride my bicycle? But I really do like Star Wars! Will you give me a choice? Will I see how far down the rabbit hole goes and end with the beginning? Does the Queen of Hearts really speak better French? Or will I choose the road less traveled-by and start something slightly new, or so old that it seems so now? Will all this filter through me and be transmitted outward for the next victim-of-a-mind to absorb, or am I just slowly learning what has always been the truth? Which is, simply:
I'm a complete nutter.
BAH. Brains. x__________________X Feel free to ignore this (unless you know much of what the hell I'm talking about... then, feel free to add to the madness). I'm just getting it out of my system before I ESPLODE.
(And ZOMG. Could you imagine the effort it would take to properly cite all the references in this lengthy rambling about books, movies, television, music, and writing? =0)