Burn Baby Burn
His belt sagged at 30 degrees. Orion has a six pack? The Drinking Gourd tipped, too, spilling black milk to everything invisible. The cold felt good on my head as I looked up on the patio. The universe didn’t notice the changes, but I did, and I drew a line from the skewed heavens directly to me. It was one of the deep but passing thoughts one has in the haze of sickness. It had begun as nausea and hypersensitivity to sound. Now, a high-pitch energy wave in my skull, restless and encaged. To breathe one has to mind even the heart rhythm or suffer the consequences.
One benefit from high fever is that the heat can burn away the workaday fog, the ambient buzz that keeps us moving and unfocused. This sick you are forced to slow down and work at thinking. In my stupor I came upon a veil, real, and what lies behind it. I wish I could prepare for my lessons, but they reach me most often, it seems, when I am broken. Perhaps that is the only time they can reach and enter me - without my filters interpreting them poorly.
You will get old and scared, and they will be waiting in the wings when it happens.
The veil parted and on the wall was written this in voice. Through the hot pounding in my skull, it was a clear enough edict.
They are calculating, vindictive lawyers, patient assassins.
I looked for more, but that was all. Then I realized the internalizing of those words had begun working on my insides. Like a curse finally read aloud to wake the mummy, a chain reaction churned to life, drawing in my history, my esteem, my hope, packing it together into a glowing mass for me too tired to avoid. I couldn’t read or watch television. I could do nothing but sit head in hand, in the dark, and consider this spectacle of which I was an integral part. Ideas in spasms and breakbeat conjecture.
What have you done?
Is what you’ve done real?
How old are you?
See question one.
Don’t waste your life.
Answer.
I opened myself for meaning. I looked hard at the trail I have left behind. I have been a dirty comet, I concluded. Spend your time reading and writing, you eventually ask yourself bleeding things, if you are at all interested in perspective, in growth. Things like, do you know what you are talking about? What is faking it? What is the construct of art and how close is it to what you think you are doing? Is writing about what you see myopic or truthful or narcissistic? Do you create from where you are or where you should be? I, I+1, or I-1? What does the context of art say about this as the patrons point at you and whisper in the grande gallery? Child of the moment, rare flash of the evening, could it be because you are a farce?
Answer.
(continued)
One benefit from high fever is that the heat can burn away the workaday fog, the ambient buzz that keeps us moving and unfocused. This sick you are forced to slow down and work at thinking. In my stupor I came upon a veil, real, and what lies behind it. I wish I could prepare for my lessons, but they reach me most often, it seems, when I am broken. Perhaps that is the only time they can reach and enter me - without my filters interpreting them poorly.
You will get old and scared, and they will be waiting in the wings when it happens.
The veil parted and on the wall was written this in voice. Through the hot pounding in my skull, it was a clear enough edict.
They are calculating, vindictive lawyers, patient assassins.
I looked for more, but that was all. Then I realized the internalizing of those words had begun working on my insides. Like a curse finally read aloud to wake the mummy, a chain reaction churned to life, drawing in my history, my esteem, my hope, packing it together into a glowing mass for me too tired to avoid. I couldn’t read or watch television. I could do nothing but sit head in hand, in the dark, and consider this spectacle of which I was an integral part. Ideas in spasms and breakbeat conjecture.
What have you done?
Is what you’ve done real?
How old are you?
See question one.
Don’t waste your life.
Answer.
I opened myself for meaning. I looked hard at the trail I have left behind. I have been a dirty comet, I concluded. Spend your time reading and writing, you eventually ask yourself bleeding things, if you are at all interested in perspective, in growth. Things like, do you know what you are talking about? What is faking it? What is the construct of art and how close is it to what you think you are doing? Is writing about what you see myopic or truthful or narcissistic? Do you create from where you are or where you should be? I, I+1, or I-1? What does the context of art say about this as the patrons point at you and whisper in the grande gallery? Child of the moment, rare flash of the evening, could it be because you are a farce?
Answer.
(continued)