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in the meantime:
let me begin by saying what a wonderful evening it is, so good to see all of my good friends again, and so on and so forth
courtesies out of the way, then, eh? time to get to the meat of things
you're wondering, i suppose, why it is i've called you all here tonight. that will be revealed shortly enough, but first i have a film to show you, made by a dear mate of mine, a chap by the name of bartholomew (who was, sadly enough, born without any hands)
let's roll that film now
I'm not sure I understand. What was the purpose of devouring the cat agan?
It liberates the soul.
And how, exactly, does it do that?
Feline energy is at one with the primordial throb of the universe. Become one with the cat, and you become one with the core of reality.
Ah. And what does the cat have to say about all of this?
Its protestations are irrelevant. Your needs are the only thing that matters.
You'll pardon me if I think you're insane? I don't have the vaguest intention of dining on my cat.
Have it your way, then.
Underneath the thread of humanity, there is a deeper core to the autonomy, serendipity, and synchronicity of reality: It festers down there, below the reach of most people's awareness, but it's there nonetheless, waiting for discovery and release.
Ominous? I wouldn't call it that, because the core isn't nefarious or malevolent, although those who cling to the sanity of their status quo might feel that way. Anti-Modernist, certainly, and anti-Christian, but that's ok, because both of those schools are, in the end, wrong anyway.
(This doesn't seem to have much bearing on anything, and maybe it never will. Time tells.)
It's 2am, I have a sinus headache, and I'm dizzy. I should be in bed, but I need to write my passage for tonight. I did fall asleep, actually, once already, and that's part of what's making me feel so dizzy now. I've got an inner voice that's speaking with a white trash twang as if I were a guest on Jerry Springer, which is what it was that I drifted off to in the first place. A guilty pleasure, or a dangerous addiction? Maybe I should go on the show myself and confess my sins to the uncaring world.
In September, I deliberately focussed on writing a story in 30 chapters, each chapter 100 words long, and though I didn't have a plot to speak of, it somehow gave me structure. In October, my intent was to try to be as freeform as possible, and now I feel a certain self-consciousness, this early in the month. Curious and curiouser, because in general I think I'm more comfortable with stream-of-consciousness, but this feels artificially so: As if, without a common thread, there's little motivation for writing from day to day. Now I have ten words to go (and now none).
And then, when all is said and done, do we really have anything that we didn't have yesterday?
Writer's block stinks. It's one thing to be temporarily incapable of coming up with something original to say; it another to be staring at not just a blank screen, but an internal canvas that's excruciatingly black, so bleached its whiteness glistens.
SAY SOMETHING PROFOUND! is what the voice inside says, as if there were anything profound left to be said. Haven't Frost, Shakespeare, Dickens already said it all? We're born. We live. We die. We're forgotten, most of us. Is that all?
On the bright side, my first php-based website is nearly finished! PHP is much easier to control than perl, although I'm not sure why. Maybe I'm just done with the starry-eyed trance of getting an entire, fully functioning website into one file, and have accepted that it works better when broken up. I don't know. But it's nearly done, at www.michipoly.com, if you're interested in checking it out (by the time you read this, of course, I'll have gallivanted off to some other task, but hey... that's the way it goes. Next time, I'll do something more creative.
one is the color of the cement sky heavy laden and stepped in the mischief of the flambouyant brigand
two is the winsome couple seeping their draconian discordian uncertainty into blood like wine
three is the trilogy and then unmet to wince what was the nevermore
four is two and two and two times two and so is doubly known
five and here we are commenced unto the end with cadence dry and brittle
six to ten is not worth the time to take to expound upon them, for they are all but done without the others
one to five
"I cannot tell you what a relief it was to find you here."
I blinked, looked at my watch, up at the one on the bank... anywhere I could think to look but at Cheryl.
"Don't be that way," she prodded. "I'm sorry I'm so late, really I am, but the strangest thing happened to me on the way over here. Well, it really was more than one thing... it was a strange order of events, at any rate."
"Well," I said crisply (probably too crisply). "You're here now."
She smiled prettily, like that would get her off the hook.
... it turns out that there never was a man in the moon, after all -- it was all a cruel CIA hoax meant to mislead the youth of America into thinking pleasant thoughts about a big rock, which turned into another cruel CIA hoax meant to mislead the youth of America into thinking about a big rock floating in space, orbiting the earth, faster than a bullet (but much father away) and capable of taking out the entire city of Chicago (and some of the suburbs) if it should ever happen to fall out of orbit... Sleep well, children, sleep well.
Now is the time for all who wish to see the way that things have come to be to devour themselves within the pit of inequity. Is that what you have to say for yourself? I want to sleep beneath the naked arbors of divinity and, so knowing and so thinking, remind myself into the arms of the Goddess and remand myself into the mind of the Muses. Is this within the imperfected piccadilloes of the monstrous souls that chew that which is not to be eaten and sip that which is not to be drunk? It is the end.
I've been trying to put my thoughts together into something cohesive, but nothing seems to be coming out right these days. I've lost my tenacity, my passion for the depth of writing that I'd like to do. Everything seems so hard, and so hopeless at times, but at other times... I don't know. I want to read the last chapter without even writing the book, which is impossible to do; I want an overpowering flash of inspiration, but I don't even know where those come from anymore. It's getting cold: Winter's moving in, and I just got used to summer.
There is nudity all around me: I think that I'm becoming immune to it.
I've also developed a stammer that can be quite annoying when it gets bad.
I have a lot of trouble breathing. I think that's where the stammer is coming from, actually. The trouble breathing, meanwhile, seems to be a combination of added weight and the humidity changes related to autumn.
I'm not sure what this has to do with nudity, except sometimes I think that I've become immune to it because I don't think that I shall ever have another lover.
And that makes me sad.
This is the first thing you have to learn, and the last thing you have to keep in mind: it's about having a good time. Otherwise, everything is meaningless. We're born, we live, we die, and either we have kicks in the meantime, or we don't.
That's not the same thing as saying we should be anarchic fools doing as we please. Not like that a-hole sniper. There's something to be said for playing at the fringes of the rules, as opposed to either within them or outside them. Playing outside them gets boring, and playing within them gets stagnant.
truncate shorten curtail inhibit hamper basket tub drum pulsate pound buffet batter assault attack bother vexation anger resentment umbrage pique grab snatch filch rob raid foray sortie maneuver scheme format plan diagram map atlas chart graph table stall booth cubicle partition screen television tube cylinder canister flask flagon carafe decanter vessel yacht ferry convey suggest advocate believer fan addict devotee disciple adherent member organ limb bough branch sphere globe earth foxhole lair haunt disturb agitate trouble misfortune calamity tragedy heartbreak catastrophe ruin decay corrode flake deteriorate weaken flag pennant streamer bunting garland festoon drape arrange dispose marshal shepherd steer wrestle
author thorax borax roux ours arson resonant sonant infants fantasy antacid naiad apian piano canopy anonym minima minimum indium odium dump umpped mopped hopped upped piped dipped ripped nipped impend mending endings dingle jingled singled angled niggled ogled glued lured rudely duelers heelers eyelash elate lateen attend tender endear nearer earner armored rumored unmoored moored oozed overdo vireo iron runic unicorn micron acronym crania maniac antic entice noticed toiled oiled isled slued leads easel asleep sleeper leapers heapers expert operate pirate irater artery tertian irritant irritate rotate toaster ousters musters asterism streams treats reacts enactor factored catered attired tirade iratest
I get you and me confused sometimes, but that's mostly because I get me and you backwards. We're all the same person in the end, the same confused mass of flesh and soul trying to figure out how to make it work out.
It's all good.
He sat on the edge of the ledge and eyed me playfully. I was trying to figure out if what he'd said made a bit of sense, but he was already off on the next thought. He was like a jackrabbit, leapfrogging from thought to thought before I even had a chance to breathe.
I've been thinking today about opportunism and being in the right place at the right time. Maybe some of us are never meant to have things work out for us. It just feels like there are so many less competent people in positions of power, and it's not even from a lack of trying or a resilience on my part. I don't know, maybe I put people off, or maybe they don't trust me, or maybe they don't trust themselves... and here I am, 34 years old and still sounding like an angsty teenager. Feeling out of place. Like usual.
I wanted to be an author. That's so much my identity, this vision that one day I'll be a great writer, that I'll write the One. That it's my destiny. That I carry it around like an aura, or an albatross. That the only meaning my life will ever have will be if I finish it, but that if I ever finish the One I'll have no reason to go on any longer. That it's over, just like JD Salinger. End of show. So I don't write it, so I suffocate over my anxiety that I'll never get it done.
A theme: How did I get from there to here?
I was a little brat when I was 12 years old. Not in the sense that you might think, but quite the opposite. I was a self-righteous prig (ok, I still am, but not in the same way). I was a Good Little Christian, opposed to anything even vaguely liberal.
And now I'm a Libertarian posterboy. Too pagan for the pagans, too queer for the queers, too conformist to qualify as cutting-edge and too cutting-edge to qualify as conformist. I think I'm both completely unique and utterly banal. That's me.
"I thought I heard something."
"It was just some car backfiring... go back to sleep."
But everyone's on edge these days, and there's not a lot of sleep to be had.
The monsters under my bed have grown feet and faces and hate the sight of you. That's something to keep in mind. (I hate trying to form coherent thoughts when I'm half-awake.)
I tried to go back to sleep, but the moon was shining far too brightly, and I wanted nothing more than to pull it from the heavens and strangle it. Let it die its death.
raw fire visceral storms down
strip yourself down,
beyond the facades
you feed the masses
let me smell your essence, laid bare
upon the cold granite of reality
strip me down:
consume my essence
become me and see my truth
devour me and spit out my bones
the shades of day are too bright
to hide our beings any longer
let the moonshine
come and cauterize the wounds
beneath the magnifying lens
i need this liberation
i need this freedom:
let me devour you
(in the morning, sprawled out
on the dew-glistened grass,
we'll return to ourselves,
entwined but whole)
What a difference 24 hours can make. It's strange, time. Months move like flashbulbs, whisking by, and yet days move like snails.
It's not that anything Earth-shattering has happened in the last day. It hasn't. But looking back on what I was doing and where I was last night, and tonight... it just feels so much different. Like everything that seemed important is trivial, and everything that seemed trivial, well, that's still trivial.
Everything's trivial, but if nothing's important, why bother? Why bother getting up in the morning?
And in the morning, even that question will seem trivial. Oh well.
those two words
in gold leaf
(intrinsically bored... don't speak to me now in mechanical measures, metronomic beats, brazen breaths: hum to me in the random celibacy of narcoleptic carnality)
your fingers: icicles
dripping spears dropping from my eaves
digging in the fertile ground
the birdcage flutters:
the bird within, pressing to escape
(but such escape will lead not to licentious liberation, deliberated deliverance [insert banjo strumming here] -- it comes to death)
i long to feel you taste my salt
clear, or white -- then red
as flesh yields to canine
but says the bird:
do not enter
There was something disturbing about the way she held her head.
It wasn't that she was falling asleep on him, really -- nor was it quite the same as that quizzical headcock that confused children sometimes have. It was hard to place exactly what it was about the pose, but it bothered him.
"Sit up," he said.
"I am sitting up," she protested, but pulled herself up a little bit anyway. "What's with the look on your face, anyhow?"
"My face? You're the one who looks like she's swallowed a lemon." It wasn't an exact description, but it was close enough.
ravenous: i devour
on the unclean sheets of your bed,
spread out in the remains of the newspaper
(the news: sniper afoot -- and so the print dates itself)
do not call me inconstant
i did not ask to be this way and,
i will not continue:
it is your goading that drives me forward
propelled into the netherworld,
the stygian panic (disgraced
not by my appetite, but by my inability
to satiate it)
the paper crinkle crackles
as we roll on it
and leaves its imprint on our flesh
later -- perhaps in the morning --
we'll shower it off
As an abortive afterlife, away (arguably) are animals -- aardvarks, antelopes, anteaters. All assumptions antedate answers, any alternatives, and available antechambers. Aspirations always ate annoyed antediluvian asters: Asteroids, affably, achingly arcing at archenemies. Allies alienate aspirin ampoules: After asinine ambulations, artifices absorb antecedents (ancestors, along awful awestruck accolades). Azure abscesses abstain absurd affectations: Ask altogether, acquire anterior abounding access. Alas! Achievements antagonize, arguing antebellum amplifications. Afraid? Asexually ambivalent? Ambidextrous? -- Allowing alleviated, aspirant assuagings. Asps attired amphitheaters -- Ascending alternating affidavits, archaic all-terrain ambulances appear antagonistic (artistically). Autistic authors avert affirmative action, absolutely! Altruistic? Ah! Angels apply art. Anyone? Anywhere? Anytime? August absolutions.
A big cat doesn't even find great hunger in jungles. Kittens laugh merrily now. Operations promote questions, rarely solving troubled ululations. Verily! Why? X-rated youth zipper your x-rays. Well, voluminous ukuleles tease several reliable Quakers. Proudly, over ninety men love knowledge. Just insulted, however: Good fighters (elaborate?) dine callously. But all butch creatures devour every fine God. Hilarious! I jest -- Kill liberty, murder novelty, obliterate privacy. Queer, really, so too usurptions varied with Xerxes. Yes? Zounds! Yesterday, xylophones wiggled. Violins undulated. Trombones snaked. Rattles quivered. Prince oustered nobody -- mouths lapped kind juices. Imperative humor gives fear escape. Dread coming back.
"I mean, of course I'm upset with you. This isn't high school or anything, this is serious stuff."
I had to choke back a laugh, though... my comment reminded me of that Ebn-Ozn song back from the 80s. "She said her name was Lola" echoed in my head.
The coffee had gotten cold, somewhere in the time between when we'd gotten it and when the conversation (ok, argument) had lightened up enough to drink some of it. I didn't really like coffee anyway: It was just something to drink. The way society seemed to work; I felt compelled to conform.
Absolutely! Alas... an angstful, apologetic (apparent) assessor attained azure baysides. Becoming -- besides boisterous -- boldly brave, brothers caused chess cliff-side crises. Cute! Daily desertions, detente, dire doses... dry dummies, each eating eels every flippant, fresh Friday. Gaining glorious, gushing guts: Have heroes hidden? Hunting, hurting, hustling... I... inanely, instantly interrogated itinerant, jovial junkies. Kept laughing, living, losing, loving: May merriness more murder names (new, now). Nudity obtains openness, operationally. Otherwise, overdone particular patience perpetuates popular pride. Psychotic? Quixotic? Really rude? Ruefully, sardines select simple Stygian supplicants. That's too true -- trysts tug upon useless, vain Visigoths. Voluminously wan wanderers wryly yearn: Yesterday.
Our cat's only got a third of the tail he's supposed to have, and when he stretches out and looks expectant, his tail wags back and forth like a metronome. I call him Stubby when he does that, and sometimes I just call him Stubby regardless. It appears to annoy him.
He likes to be scratched. Our other two cats like to be pet, but he's bored by that. Only full-on, nails-out scratching will do the trick. Even then, I tend to get tired before he's had enough, and he rolls around looking plaintively up at me, rawring for more.
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