MAP OF MALEPERDUIS

( THE JOKE WAS ALWAYS ON YOU )

2009-12-18T03:00:00.001-08:00

DEAR READER,

I trust you will treat this
as you would any book
of meaning.

Accept that it is free.
Honor it as a gift.

THE AUTHOR,

Kelly Brooke Seagraves

PEACE.

2009-12-17T10:47:00.000-08:00

ESSAY TOPICS FOR ART HISTORY PAPERS
I WILL NEVER WRITE BECAUSE NO TEACHER
WOULD EVER ISSUE THE ASSIGNMENT, AND
I DON'T GO TO SCHOOL ANYMORE ANYWAY:

If you could use magic to step inside any painting, which painting would it be, and why? Explain what it would feel like to pass through chosen portal.
Imagine you are the Mona Lisa. Ambiguously describe what's going on in your head without actually letting anyone know.
Go ahead and let yourself embrace your distaste towards postmodern sculpture and performance. Veil your energy and release your hatred in only 73 - 510 pages ( single-spaced, 9pt font ).

OTHER SUGGESTED TOPICS FOR ART SCHOOL PAPERS:

Many of today's young artists prey upon each other. Discuss this phenomenon with as few curse words as possible.
How few artists are true visionaries, and how many artists are true idiots? On average, how often do true visionaries make it through their ordeal without falling victim to true idiots?
Explain what Joseph Beuys forgot to explain.
What is the difference between an artist using religious iconography for the sake of humor and an artist who is completely overrun with dark spirit energy? Compare and contrast.
Explain why you feel bad when you feel bad. Explain how this torment is more artistic than any of the art you produce. Then show your essay to your significant other.
Women can never be real artists. Explain why you believe this.
Then explain why you're an asshole. Then I'll explain you getting your skull smashed open with an animal's jawbone.

KILLING SWANS.

2009-12-15T12:31:00.000-08:00

"You're going to die early," someone told me last night. So I shut up, stopped talking, and sacrificed another. And today, yet another, I'm sure.

The pearl-studded stone. Writing is the ugliest art form. It takes too long to see the big picture. There's never enough color. And those things are beside the point. Because we have poor eye sight. Astigmatism, keratoconus, intuition. And we're busy fumbling around in the dark. Even me. All I see now are the worthless, sentimental things I picked up along the wayside, where I slept when the weather was warm. The dumb bugs, the color yellow, eyes in the woods that were briefly eyes. We went down there to stare, and they were only tiny white flowers. Little blind swans. No one saw us. We never saw each other. No one saw at all. And at the count of three, you will open your eyes . . .

ONE

TWO

THREE

NO MORE WORKHORSE BLUES.

2009-12-11T22:05:00.000-08:00

Stupid, stupid, stupid, mummble-mummble-mummble, inaudible curses and prayers. Hey, you, do you know where we are? I'm completely mother fucking lost out here. It's like I headed South when I was supposed to have been headed North, or some shit. Wrong turn, wrong plan, wrong map altogether. God ditched me in Chicago. Him and that black-haired, black-hearted son of a witch. And all the people I ask on dates are full of shit and scared stiff. Poor puppy. All scared of their own shadow. Ooga-booga. And I think there's something in my eye. Can you see it? It's an eyelash, I think. Fuck. Get it out.

If you're looking for confirmation, I'll go ahead and confirm. Yes. You guessed it. I'm really, really, really, really smart. God help me, because I sure as Hell can't help it. I can't help myself. When you spend your whole life inside, reading books and drawing pictures, you end up living the dream. I never once cheated. I was always true. And now, for the happy ending . . .

I wish you frog-faced freaks knew what was happening in your heads. It's fucking disgusting. Good thing there's a mop and a bucket. And good thing there's plenty of blood to spare. And good thing forgiveness is a big part of love. And good thing my heart, my heart, my heart. Is roaring. You may never again witness this natural wonder. Enjoy it while the world's still White.

I'm going to drink some water
Put the red back in my hair
Connect with my Fox totem
and go to fucking bed.

Good Night, America.

WATCH AND LEARN.

2009-12-09T14:29:00.001-08:00

BOYS.

2009-12-06T23:01:00.000-08:00

It is a metaphor that I'm singing along.
It is a metaphor that you can't hear.

I'm shivering on the outside. Teeth chattering, caught in cold little shudders. And looking straight at you - straight into your face, but only for a spasm of a moment. And then, I return to my shivering - being dead honestly cold. I'm cold, real cold, sure, but the last thing I am is a beggar. Not on the outside, where my coat is, anyway. I plead too, just like you, but I use my eyes. And it's raining. Would you look at that? But more importantly, let's have a look at this ...

Because, I mean, what's that little girl trying to do? Boy is she ever short . . . Her legs are thinner now than they were a year ago, but it doesn't get rid of the short. I guess the hair helps. She's just elongated, and maybe that makes sense. Why does it feel like she's getting so much closer to me? She's not even moving. She's just standing in one place. With her hands forced deep in her little jacket, shaking. She's toying with something I can't see. Something in her pocket. Maybe it's a lighter - probably is - but imagine. It could be anything. A lucky stone, like she's a witch or something. Or some boy's telephone number. Even though she never seems interested in boys. And maybe that makes sense too. She'd never call that boy anyway. And so what if she'd never call that boy? I'm too old for this shit, and I mean, so ... what ... ?

And just look at this guy. What's his damage? I mean, what is "damage" anyway? It's the 21st century. Damage doesn't make you important anymore. Or it shouldn't. It should, however, facilitate power, and this guy's using none of that. He's shrinking. It's like he's turned on but refusing to glow - like a busted lamp. And do you know what people do with a busted lamp? If they're artistic, anyway, they make light of a dark situation - and make that lamp glow some other way. And the funny thing is - this guy knows every bit of it already. But he keeps right on excusing himself, assuming his own guilt like a fool, and dropping another quip about some girl who isn't here. Not right now, or not anymore. Just her shadow's here. I kind of wish I knew how to ask someone for their phone number. And, huh, I wonder what that could mean ...

I could, um, be another nervous wreck. Thinking to myself, "What if I'm invisible again?" Because that's always been my affliction. Covered over like a master in the dense flora of my life, hidden in the colorful undergrowth of my social condition. Or I could say to myself, "Oh, what the hell? This would have my undivided attention anyway," and step back. And scream like bloody murder, in my head, into the air. Letting the wind work it's magic. And, exactly.

Camouflage would otherwise seem useless to me, if not for the sake of this ... sort of ... thing.

I'm guessing, now, that wolves really do wear sheep's clothing. Just like the story says. So my only question now is, "Do they both see what's going on here, with the wolves and the sheep? Or is it too dark outside? And does anybody have a flashlight?"

Something in her pocket.

Maybe it's a lighter - probably is.

BLACK ELK SCREAMS.

2009-12-04T23:14:00.000-08:00

This place stinks of sweet grass and sage. Smells nightmarish. Overwhelming. God, I can hardly focus my attention on what matters. The television set. The television set. The television set is crying. The remote control is crying. The microwave oven is crying - the song of an orphan. Crying out my name. Nice Fox, you idiot, you blind-eyed nothing, wake up and smell the garbage! And what's your American Indian name? Ghost Writer? You look more like a Round Never to me. And what about erecting a totem pole? D'ya mind? Right here. Right now. Thirty feet tall. Or, rather, would it be legal? Say, in my front yard. Yeah, about thirty feet tall. Because this energy needs balancing out. Needs Porcupine, or Bison, or something. Oh, God. "You're interested in archaeology, I see!" Um, sir. No, sir. You must have me mistaken for someone else, who is dead ... Who told you all that rubbish anyway? Great Spirit'll give 'em what for. One day when they least expect it, he'll come in the form of a terrible pink lightening storm and ... POP! No, really, what I'm interested in is what raccoons might think about right before they fall asleep, and how I might be able to turn that into a song, or a shield, or a great stationary cloud. More often than not, all of the above, simultaneously. I'm interested in why, as I close my eyes, I can see a series of humming, stop-motion pictures that have nothing to do with anything. Vaguely. Of giant serpents who sing about the relevance of cosmology in the Modern World. Or how the two-leggeds could benefit greatly from meditating upon the circle, symbolically, rhythmically, whatever. And when I open my eyes, I am stricken to notice a televised advertisement for weight loss implements or blessed, multipurpose kitchen utensils - the things God must use to stay fit. So, yes, go ahead. Assume. Let's say I'm interested in archaeology. So long as I have your permission to chant into a rock and spend a bit more time staring at the patterns in your wallpaper. I do not have a reason Why. Stop bothering me. Leave me with this tree. It has more to say than any of you, and it isn't half as ugly. That was a joke, a banana peel. Dog-like wisdom, or some other bit of food. It means, "Pick on someone your own size, chump." I'm already on tippy-toes. The difference is I know why I'm on them. It ain't ethnocentric if the White of your Spirit bleeds itself Red.

ZODIAC TEAMSTERS.

2009-12-04T09:42:00.000-08:00

FIND YOUR ZODIAC TEAM ! ! !

a list compiled by me as I listen to
"Desert Rose" by Sting
"White Flag" by Dido, and
"Where Have All the Cowboys Gone?"
by Paula Cole, on repeat.

ARIES : Active, Demanding, Determined, Effective, Ambitious

Flannery O'Connor / Maya Angelou / Johann Sebastian Bach / Eric Wareheim / Marlon Brando / Matthew Broderick / Charlie Chaplin / Jackie Chan / Claire Danes / Tim Curry / Leonardo Da Vinci / Raphael / Rene Descartes / Celine Dion / Guy Fawkes / Robert Frost / Aretha Franklin / Jane Goodall / Billie Holiday / Harry Houdini / Thomas Jefferson / Elton John / Heath Ledger / David Letterman / Abraham Maslow / Leonard Nimoy / Gary Oldman / Quintin Tarantino / Vincent Van Gogh / William Wordsworth

TAURUS : Security, Subtle strength, Appreciation, Instruction, Patience

Karl Marx / Vladimir Lenin / Adolf Hitler / Sigmund Freud / Immanuel Kant / J. Robert Oppenheimer / Malcolm X / Jasper Johns / Cy Twombly / Salvador Dali / Joan Miro / Johannes Brahms / Peter Tchaikovsky / Niccolo Machiavelli / Wes Anderson / Fred Astaire / John James Audubon / John Wilkes Booth / Charlotte Bronte / Pierce Brosnan / Jack Nicholson / George Clooney / Stephen Colbert / Audrey Hepburn / Jay Leno / Jet Li / Iggy Pop / Bono / Cher / Enya / Sandra Dee / Brian Eno / William Shakespeare / Orson Welles / Barbra Streisand / Jerry Seinfeld / Robert Pattinson

GEMINI : Communication, Indecision, Inquisitive, Intelligent, Changeable

Anne Frank / Prince / Che Guevara / John F. Kennedy / Jack Kevorkian / Albrecht Dürer / Bob Dylan / Clint Eastwood / Frank Lloyd Wright / Walt Whitman / William Butler Yeats / Saul Bellow / Allen Ginsberg / Mary Cassatt / Paul McCartney / Richard Wagner / George Bush Sr. / Barbara Bush / Michael Cera / Hugh Laurie / Marilyn Monroe / Alanis Morrisette / Jacques-Yves Cousteau / Jeffrey Dahmer / Donald Trump / Johnny Depp / Michael J. Fox / The Olsen Twins (ha-ha!)

CANCER : Emotion, Diplomatic, Intensity, Impulsive, Selective

Rembrandt / Peter Paul Rubens / Frida Kahlo / Dalai Lama / Jean-Paul Sartre / P.T. Barnum / Nelson Mandela / Helen Keller / Bill Cosby / John Cusack / David Hockney / Gustav Klimt / Edgar Degas / Marcel Proust / Franz Kafka / Pablo Neruda / O.J. Simpson / Lizzie Borden / Ringo Starr / John Quincy Adams / Nathaniel Hawthorne / George Orwell / Ernest Hemingway / Harrison Ford / George W. Bush / Robin Williams / Orville Redenbacher / Dean Koontz / Tom Hanks / Michael Phelps / Beck / Ingmar Bergman / Mel Brooks / Jean-Jacques Rousseau

LEO : Ruling, Warmth, Generosity, Faithful, Initiative

Black Elk / Andy Warhol / Neil Armstrong / Arnold Schwarzenegger / Davy Crockett / Benito Mussolini / Leni Riefenstahl / Louis Vuitton / J.K. Rowling / Miss Cleo / Napoleon Bonaparte / Fidel Castro / Coco Chanel / Aldous Huxley / Charles Bukowski / Carl Jung / George Hamilton / Emily Bronte / Mick Jagger / Joe Jonas / Steve Carell / Bill Clinton / Henry Ford / Jerry Garcia / Hulk Hogan / Marcus Garvey / Madonna / Barrack Obama / Steve Martin / Jean Piaget / Lucille Ball / Audrey Tautou / Lil Romeo / Emiliano Zapata / Alfred Hitchcock / Amelia Earhart

VIRGO : Analyzing, Practical, Reflective, Observation, Thoughtful

Michael Jackson / Jesse James / Mother Teresa / Kate Bush / Pee Wee Herman / John Locke / Bill Murray / David Copperfield / Werner Herzog / Jacques-Louis David / Lance Armstrong / Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel / Tim Burton / Roald Dahl / John Cage / Leonard Cohen / Ken Kesey / Elliott Smith / Ingrid Bergman / Greta Garbo ("I want to be left alone") / Ed Gein / Dr. Phil / Hugh Grant / Nick Jonas / Buddy Holly / Otis Redding / D.H. Lawrence / H.G. Wells / Ivan Pavlov / Leo Tolstoy

LIBRA : Balance, Justice, Truth, Beauty, Perfection

Mahatma Gandhi / Oscar Wilde / Elijah Muhammad / Lil Wayne / Buster Keaton / R.L. Stine / Eleanor Roosevelt / Johnny Appleseed / Nico / Timothy Leary / Robert Rauschenberg / Arthur Rimbaud / Bela Lugosi / Glenn Gould / Nat Turner / Elie Wiesel / Aleister Crowley / Maya Lin / Mark Rothko / F. Scott Fitzgerald / Truman Capote / John Lennon / Steve Burns (Blue's Clues) / Thelonious Monk / Brigitte Bardot / Montgomery Clift / Samuel Taylor Coleridge / Franz Liszt / Miguel de Cervantes / E.E. Cummings / Hillary Duff / Snoop Dogg / Luciano Pavarotti / Avril Lavigne / Charlton Heston / Gwen Stefani / Klaus Kinski / Jeff Goldblum / Sigourney Weaver / Will Smith / Kate Winslet / Hugh Jackman / Mark Hamill (Luke Skywalker) / Dwight Eisenhower / Yo-Yo Ma / Lee Harvey Oswald / Sting / Ed Sullivan / Margaret Thatcher / Dennis Kucinich / The Obama "first dog" (Bo)

SCORPIO : Transient, Self-Willed, Purposeful, Unyielding

Bill Gates / Mickey Mouse / Pablo Picasso / P. Diddy / Baha'u'llah / Carl Sagan / Dylan Thomas / Sylvia Plath / Erasmus / Martin Luther / W.C. Handy / Marie Curie / Fyodor Dostoyevsky / Kurt Vonnegut / Ezra Pound / Paracelsus / Leon Trotsky / Roberto Benigni / Theodore Roosevelt / Bernard Montgomery / George Patton / Erwin Rommel / Dorothy Day / Weird Al Yankovic / Björk / Daniel Boone / Robert F. Kennedy / Claude Money / Georgia O'Keefe / Charles Manson / Indira Gandhi / Julia Roberts / Laura Bush / Grace Kelly / John Adams / Abigail Adams / Martin Scorsese / Daniel Ortega / John Keats / Margaret Atwood / Albert Camus / Jodie Foster / Joni Mitchell / Johnny Carson / Prince Charles / Demi Moore / Hillary Rodham Clinton / Leonardo DiCaprio / Joaquin Phoenix / Sasha Cohen / Jamie Lee Curtis / Billy Graham / Whoopi Goldberg / Scarlett Johansson / Kevin Jonas / Vivian Leigh / Anne Sexton / Edwin Hubble / Meg Ryan / Marie Antoinette / Ivanka Trump / Claus von Stauffenberg

SAGITTARIUS : Philosophical, Motion, Experimentation, Optimism

Nostradamus / Bill Nye / Steven Spielberg / Britney Spears / Jimi Hendrix / Phillip K. Dick / Jim Morrison / C.S. Lewis / Edith Piaf / Mos Def / Frank Sinatra / Uri Geller / William Lloyd Garrison / Walt Disney / Mark Twain / Jean-Luc Godard / James Harold Doolittle / George Armstrong Custer / Diego Rivera / DMX / Mary Todd Lincoln / Sammy Davis Jr. / The Coen Brothers / Jay-Z / John Kerry / Paul Klee / Joseph Conrad / Woody Allen / Friedrich Engels / Noam Chomsky / Ted Bundy / Winston Churchill / David Carradine / Bob Barker / Tina Turner / King Bhumibol Adulyadej / Andrew Carnegie / Steve Buscemi / Louisa May Alcott / Tyra Banks / Joe DiMaggio / Clay Aiken / Samuel L. Jackson / William Blake / Jacques Chirac / Miley Cyrus / Emily Dickinson / Brendan Fraser / Billy Idol / Madeleine L'Engle / Brad Pitt / Tom Waits / Jake Gyllenhaal / Bruce Lee / Eli Whitney

CAPRICORN : Determination, Dominance, Perservering, Practical, Willful

Martin Luther King Jr. / Isaac Newton / Stephen Hawking / J.R.R. Tolkien / Elvis Presley / Edgar Allen Poe / Andy Kaufman / Richard Nixon / J.D. Salinger / Cary Grant / Howard Hughs / Michelle Obama / Jack Hanna / Robert E. Lee / Cicero / Umberto Eco / Walter Mondale / Dolly Parton / Hermann Goering / David Bowie / Henri Matisse / Alexander Hamilton / John Hancock / Humphrey Bogart / Muhammad Ali / J. Edgar Hoover / Benedict Arnold / Andrew Johnson / Benjamin Franklin / Clara Barton / Bernadette of Lourdes / David Sedaris / Carl Sandburg / Jude Law / Janis Joplin / Al Capone / Rob Zombie / Denzel Washington / Kid Rock / Jim Carrey / Marilyn Manson / David Caruso / Jared Leto / Ava Gardner / John DeLorean / Nicolas Cage / Marlene Dietrich / John Denver / Bo Diddley / Ricky Martin / Woodrow Wilson / Dido / Stephenie Meyer / Ryan Seacrest / Tiger Woods / Louis Pasteur

AQUARIUS : Knowledge, Humanitarian, Serious, Insightful, Duplicitous

Galileo / Babe Ruth / Virginia Woolfe / Thomas Edison / Ayn Rand / Bob Marley / Lewis Carroll / Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart / Alice Walker / Dr. Dre / Abraham Lincoln / Susan B. Anthony / James Joyce / Edith Wharton / Langston Hughes / Jackson Pollock / Norman Rockwell / Edouard Manet / Anton Chekhov / Jimmy Hoffa / Lana Turner / Richard Brautigan / William S. Burroughs / Adlai Stevenson / Philip Glass / Mia Farrow / Tim Hiedecker / Christian Bale / Charles Dickens / Toni Morrisson / Elizabeth Blackwell / Glenn Beck / Justin Timberlake / John Belushi / Molly Ringwald / Sonny Bono / Gene Hackman / James Cromwell / John Grisham / John Travolta / Eva Gabor / William McKinley / Gary Coleman / Ellen Degeneres / Wayne Gretzsky / Sheryl Crow / Paris Hilton / Sarah Palin / Clark Gable / Christina Ricci / Bill Maher / Dick Cheney / Jackie Robinson / James Dean / Taylor Lautner / Michael Jordan / Elijah Wood / Conor Oberst / Charles Lindbergh / David Lynch / Shakira / Boris Yeltsin / Ronald Reagan / Oprah Winfrey / Eva Braun / Franklin Delano Roosevelt / Yoko Ono

PISCES : Fluctuation, Depth, Imagination, Reactive, Indecisive

Steve Jobs / Dr. Seuss / Nina Simone / Albert Einstein / Michelangelo / Piet Mondrian / Jack Kerouac / Ansel Adams / Balthus / George Harrison / Charles Barkley / Johnny Cash / Cindy Crawford / Billy Crystal / Dakota Fanning / Kelsey Grammer / L. Ron Hubbard / Steve Irwin / Andrew Jackson / Ted Kennedy / Lou Reed / Bruce Willis / Lil Bow Wow / Casimir Pulaski / George Washington

WHERE IS MY LONELY RANGER?
I WON'T PUT MY HANDS UP AND SURRENDER.
THESE DREAMS ARE TIED TO A HORSE THAT WILL NEVER TIRE.

WORDS WORTH OF PROVERBS 23:3.

2009-12-02T14:02:00.000-08:00

HOOVES THAT LEAD ME THROUGH THE FOREST:

Wilt thou set thine eyes upon that which is not?
For riches certainly make themselves wings;
they fly away as an eagle toward heaven.

It seems the author is only half-accountable
for her own history, and half-conscious
of the joy it brings.

And to the one who solves the word search, I may owe another gift.

THEY STRUCK ME, YOU WILL SAY, BUT I WAS NOT HURT.
THEY BEAT ME, BUT I DID NOT FEEL IT.

When shall I awake? I will seek it yet again.

DOCTOR'S NOTE.

2009-11-30T00:46:00.000-08:00

A CONVERSATION BETWEEN THE ANIMUS AND THE ANIMA:

"I trust you to keep things in order. Can you do that for me?"
"Oh yes, of course! I absolutely love being trusted!"
"I've noticed ... "
"Of course you've noticed."
"... Yeah, it took me a while to realize it, but you're starting to seem like a pretty ambitious young ... thing ..."
"Um, well, thank you? Go figure, huh? A lot of people seem to kind of overlook tradition, but I'd say my traditions reflect my ambition pretty accurately. I mean, I stick to them."
"Oh yeah. Traditions are important ... Very important."
"Absolutely. If you've got traditions, you've always got something you can rely on!"
"I see it as a responsibility. And I usually take on that responsibility myself ..."
"Well, why wouldn't you? That way you can always be sure to at least have your share."
"... Exactly."
"Exactly."

EAGLE CLUB.

2009-11-29T14:42:00.000-08:00

Let him that stole steal no more:
but rather let him labour, working
with his hands the thing which is good,
that he may have to give to him that needeth.

MADE OF STAR STUFF.

2009-11-28T12:49:00.000-08:00

Armadillo, armored round in the curled-up light space by the wayside, and laid out severely to lock out the dark subtlety of whatever Time is called by You. Night Eyes see the way You use your used-to's as backdrops and settings for the year's next next-to-perfect tragicomedy. In two acts, three acts, four blood-curtling acts.

Patience asks, "Could we please avoid another?"

And the response, until now, has been, "No - just one more. Because I enjoyed the last so dearly. That Act was so dear to me. Please, sir ..."

Day, day, day, day. All that waking.

You must be tired from that.

So, some time, I decided that the moon is rising. One tiny second at a time, minute by minute by minute, above, to pull. And to remain dark in the soft, cold release of the night, I am resolved to lend my spare portions of sun to the fools who get lost out there.

I THINK I'VE REALLY GOTTEN TO LIKE FEELING
STRANGE & ALONE. I EAT MY GAS STATION TURKEY
& CHEESE SANDWICH ALONE IN MY CAR, IN THE DARK,
IN THE BACK PARKING LOT OF MY APARTMENT COMPLEX.
I FEEL MY STOMACH GROWL. EVERYTHING IS PERFECTLY
FINE RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW. I SIT & THINK OF ALL
THE BOOKS AND STILLNESS I SEE IN MY IMMEDIATE
FUTURE, & I KIND OF HAVE TO LAUGH.

We will kill your glamour. We will carve it from your living body, eat it bloody, still throbbing, and shit it back into Earth. We will defame you. Rip it from you. Free you. Trust us - our dark, spirit hands / our loving palms. We're sturdy. We can hold you. We can hold everyone.

We are not lazy voyeurs. We are here to live as you live. Know us as you know any neighbor. We need your assistance / We will assist you. We are a new idea - an alliance. We are volunteers. We want to know your passions and your desires. We hope you will call upon us and trust us - accept us. We, too, try for freedom.

CARL SAGAN.

2009-11-25T11:57:00.001-08:00

LET IT FLOW
LET IT FLOW
LET IT FLOW

THE JOY LUCK CLUB.

2009-11-21T22:18:00.000-08:00

If YOU are using black magic, the time to stop is NOW.

God, we Who-Mans were lucky to have held on to that Fear ...
Fear is an art form. Fear tells the Truth.
Fear tells you where to run, to overcome it.
Honest-to-Goodness Fear protects everyone.

And I'm scared shitless - so let's play.

DAILY PHENOMENON #1.

2009-11-19T22:52:00.000-08:00

Ding-dong, the witch's bread. Fox in the henhouse. So cut off her head. What is a two-letter word that isn't "ox", that connects "bull" to "magician"? I tried "Ra" over and over and over again. One day, maybe, it'll work. Poor old Ra . . . This is my post-therapeutic first glance at everything. As always, no diploma. This is life, this is life, this is life, this is life. This is life. I read somewhere that my lucky number is 5, so I added a fifth.

The total eclipse.

There was a total eclipse over the Asian continent on the the day I fell on that wine glass and received my half of the stigmata. Literally . . . maybe also metaphorically, and metaphysically. And then they bombed the moon for water. Such and such.

That must have been the other half.

Funny, because. There's a movie called "Total Eclipse". It's 1 of a total of 7 (or 8) DVDs in my DVD collection. It's about 1 of my favorite poets - Rimbaud (duh) - some maniac genius who dreamt about the African sun until he finally went and found it. They called him the "terrible infant", because he was too young and too good. He was young forever. He must have been looking for Ra too . . . So maybe Ra's still out there, somewhere . . . Waiting . . .

Anyway, Rimbaud was played by Leonardo DiCaprio, who also starred in . . .

Growing Pains.

Speaking of which. One time, these two ancient civilizations had been warring for 3 years, and a total eclipse did it's thing in the sky overhead, and the war stopped. They thought it was suddenly night. They thought the sky was offering them a diamond ring. So they all put down their dumb weapons and thought, "I do."

A name I'd been trying to figure out turned out to be something easy. Everything but dull in a tone deaf ear. And the song "Total Eclipse of the Heart" is by Bonnie Tyler. Wrong name. Go figure! And do I have to drag it with me? And do I have to drag it with me? And do I have to drag it with me? Can Delphinius do it for me? I beg your pardon. I thought I meant to say "Delphinus" . . . Will you ask him for me? Actually, wait . . . What am I actually dragging? The deer was never dead? It doesn't die? Oh . . . Somehow that makes sense. I guess I'm empty-handed . . . Who-Ra! Who-Ra! Genie in a bottle, etc.

Well, so, does the deer have a name?

Now, bitch. To find that out, you just have to be Faster Than the Speed of Night.

My brain, Great Spirit, my brain! It's so pink and girly.

You made it that way, Great Spirit. Remember?

Watch how Asia sleeps beneath you.

And the Western front?

All's quiet.

Good Knight.

LITERATURE SURVEY.

2009-11-19T00:58:00.000-08:00

I HOPE ROB CANFIELD ~~DOES NOT LOOK~~
LOOKS AT MY BLINGEE.COM PROFILE

UM.

2009-11-18T00:02:00.000-08:00

HOW DO YOU SCREAM "KISS ME" IN EVERY LANGUAGE?

HOW DO YOU KICK A HOLE THROUGH A SKULL?

HOW DO YOU REMEMBER THE SAME NAME TWICE?

HOW DO YOU TURN ALL THAT WINE BACK IN TO WATER?

HOW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT THIS HEADSTONE?

IS IT YOU?

DOES IT SUIT YOU?

HOW MUCH ARE YOU WILLING TO INVEST IN IT?

ARE YOU READY TO COMMIT AND PURCHASE IT?

CAN I CALL YOU? DO I EVEN HAVE YOUR NUMBER?

BUT, DO I CARE?

UNSOLVED MYSTERIES OF POWER.

2009-11-16T12:19:00.000-08:00

NIGHTWATCH.

2009-11-15T18:23:00.000-08:00

YES, I CAN
YES, I CAN
YES, I CAN

The energy can be led, and I will lead it. I'll be at the front of it. I will go first.

I will try to write some about intuition, but the rest you will write yourself.

To intuit is to understand and WORK OUT by instinct. I know my instinct, and am thus able to use my intuition to WORK OUT what should not influence me or any of the people. My instinct is to protect, ward off, and invite. I invite only good things : Luck. Love. Life. Clarity. Health and Healing. I do this through Work and with Focus.

Both, together.

All other illness is NOT WELCOME.
That is All.

Hide the ___ cub.

These are the Keys. Here it is. It is Willpower.
But the beam is so narrow, it takes something straight, steady, and in-balance. It takes a master. Here, Precision - with this, find the Right Way to pass the trench. These are traps set for the unwitting to fall. Let Yours not be unwitting, and TRY.

Rabbit, Rabbit, Rabbit.
Run past the fear of it all -
And keep running.

11 and 8

THERE IS A PULSAR IN VULPECULA.

2009-11-13T11:41:00.000-08:00

A PICTURE OF ME
IN THE COMMUNITY GARDEN.

I. you were born to face your fears
II. they had never seen one like us
III. you are in his eye, make light of it

A. when we have no chance, we have no will
B. yesterday my bathwater turned purple
C. once calculated, there is nothing more

AIR GRAFFITI & THE RED RACE.

2009-11-12T02:40:00.000-08:00

I'm driving over the ancient ruins of the future. Pictogram arrows, one-by-one, guide Turtle Island's finest blind horsemen down the old black road. Silent haunts so joyfully - until you're cursed by the moaning of engines & sirens, as all good men find themselves to be. & lines that never stop to cross, filed deeply away under three colored lights in the sky. What could This all mean?

When I finally die, parts of my soul will become the Internet.
When handled properly, Code never fails.
I ask my technology to work as hard as I do.
& when I do, it does.

This is how I know that the future is a forest.
To a fox, the human is just another car to dodge. Just another empty hand to follow. Idiot personality, you never tamed them once, nor any other time. & you'll never tame them. How dumb they'd be - to ever end the game. Rather, they will make you afraid and allergic, render you as mute as a deer. Forever full of nervous respect before that thing you love. This, so we all have some space to run. God, let's all become foxes.

& now I know.
There is no way but the indian way.

8TH FLAME.

2009-11-10T01:15:00.001-08:00

Ken dey ta. Speak in tongues. It makes you feel like a spiritualist leader. Kahr le luha. Whatever sound rips through you. Pouring like magic notes over a dune, pooling against the sides of your skull with a soft "shllickt". Taga nan sensavah yal. Fall for childlore one last time.

My private life as a wolf has been quite easy. I tear down walls. I run, I howl. I carry friends and lovers on my back. The snow yields to my feet. My black hair is as dark as the universe, and shines like diamond-dusted silk underneath a moon that is always full. My breath takes the shape of a devil in the cold, cold night. I smear my muzzle with thick blood from the insides of an animal. I'll stalk anything but a shadow. I have only allies.

Whatever council judges you. Whatever dealer places his bid. Whatever strikes you dead at whatever age, in whatever place. Whether you shuffle casually or with a frantic energy. Ho-hum. I hardly care.

A mole is the mark of a witch. A mark as if from a potion-laced kiss.

LE RENARD ET L'ENFANT.

2009-11-05T23:23:00.000-08:00

It's life on the run. It's falling in love and being shot. It's chase scenes that end in shooting stars. It's having eyes, having ears, having feet, crying into the night. It's walking on the tips of your toes, one step ahead of the next step. It's your tail being your tale, recorded, and where you keep all your hidden power. It's a criminal record you never knew you had. Living life a world apart, closed-up someplace where spider's silk floats like a dream through breaking ghost fingers. In the setting sun. Burning or glowing, bound to face another fear on the battlefront, cosmic debris setting off chain-reactions in the East. It's having a pearl. It's losing a pearl. It's looking everywhere to find it again. It's digging holes for no reason. Burying everything, hoping time will take care of the rest. All that heaving and hurting and blood in your mouth just to keep yourself alive to love again. Because you know Love is worth every pint of bleeding / every broken glass tooth / every grave you ever knew. And it's a hard knock life worth living.

THE YOUNG AND THE RESTLESS.

2009-11-05T01:28:00.000-08:00

I am not boy, I am not same, I am not sick, I am not coming back.

I guess I can't explain it. It's heavier than a word. I guess I look the same. What a shame they didn't attach something reflective to me. On my way through, they said, "This isn't easy," and I casually remarked, without ever knowing, "Well, anyway, life is hard." But when I stepped in here, with my weird luck, every boy still called me by my dead name, not seeing anything of a wing, the ghost of a toddling lamb, laughing at my joke, picking through waste baskets for wisdom.

So I said, "Look at me."

And they all replied in unison,
"I already have. That is to say, no thank you. Move steadily along now, mister. Must make room for the many blessings tomorrow has to share with me - with me - with me!"

Fine, yes, I promise to haunt this place. Yes, yes, yes.

So, each time, I let those boys pass right through me. They were hard and fell, like cinder blocks, gliding through like a butcher's knife into a headless swine. I let them call me "good dog". All those cleverly concealed pipe-bombs. Sulfuric acid foaming at the rim of a glass. They jog the length of a cell block, counting all their plastic mothers in a row. May we? And a 1. And a 2. And a 3. Or was that a 2? - - - Yes, sir, that was a 2. A pity your vision must be going. Anyway, good-bye.

Oh how the mighty are flailing.

EVERGREEN SOCKET.

2009-11-01T01:44:00.000-07:00

Now, Cyclops, do your worst - You must know by now that even the shy ghost hairs on our arms flaunt forward. And there, in searching, a tooth is in the eye, and a claw towards Venus sleeping. You find yourself sinking into irises, and such-and-such. Like your hand is acting independent from your head, forging your name on a peace contract. It was printed upside-down. Something, at last, seems ominous. Swing low.

So, when your wealth of weeds burns cold, bear up underneath that weight. You'll find a second wind. And in that place, there settled above the in-between, the best boy's key grip, masked as a latent-waking third eye, begins to slip, and the borderline shrinks into something biospheric and common under the halo of his looking finger.

And over dim headlights, the lamp of the double chokes into one common current.

The only genius recital of a cycle such as mine is one composed entirely the same, only reversed, like this - so, to wear a polished mirror directly over the heart, and to proudly claim that display as your uniform - your Song of Love.

My half of Venus began in earnest, and paused there - smart - with a mirror ribbed about her forefeatures. Knowing no sacrifice made into a blank circle was true. And every true eye, a perfect new mirror to wind deep into.

So could you please repeat that, mister? What's missing? Not a single inch of it is missing. It's all in place, and sorted well, and here comes the bright, new marching band. Trumpets roar. And we call ourselves The Adventure Dogs. Our mission? Protect the road. What was that? Have I read Rimbaud? What kind of dumb fucking question is that?

Of course I've read Rimbaud.
And now it's your turn.

MEDITATIONS IN THE GLORIOUS KINGDOM.

2009-10-28T15:54:00.000-07:00

My pet cat has ancestors. He'd like me to remind you that your lap is a very important place.

"jm vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv
vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv
vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv
vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv
vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv
vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv"

- excerpt from an essay written by Ornette "Kiki" Coleman-Seagraves, my smart and orange cat, who fearlessly challenges the laptop every chance he gets

Let's always keep in mind: Our pets are the original lap-tops.

We think we keep them in our lives, but in actuality, it's a mutually agreed-upon cohabitation. They stay in our lives knowing there will be an exchange. They live and love for a bit of food, some water, and the chance to learn a new, more complex language. The human language. A-B-C, 1 2 3, you and me.

I think animals are after our language. I think it's their goal to know us. Maybe that's why they keep so close - why they have hearts, lungs, legs, bones. They have mouthes, throats. They eat and drink. They have voices. The give birth. They want to be like us. It's why they've kept their mind beyond science, and still serve the Earth in spirit. We know that if they kept us as pets, we'd live outdoors. In the forest. Upon the mountain. Underground. So if you keep pets, be sure to slow your mind sometimes, and talk to them, and let your little animal comrade know how much you love and appreciate him.

Cats are strong and dainty. What's the word? AGILE. Yeah, that's it ...
The more you know about the way they live, the more you'll understand the things they need from you, and why they are always greatly important. Cats know how to use the art of mystery to pursue whatever it is they're after. In mystery, they find their nobility. And their mystery preys upon our spirit, and calls to us, and we strongly sympathize with them. We leave food for them, knowing they must be hungry. And even when the only dish that's clean is the dish that cost the most - the finest kitchenware - we'll still choose to lay it out with gross, wet, stinking meat for Cat. Because perhaps we understand, on a very deep level, that the cat is a royal creature - one who deserves to eat from a golden platter. He is our guardian and our guide.

Dogs are rugged lovers. LOYALTY is a word that rings true. A dog will help you in whatever way he can. He will sleep beside you and share the warmth of his body. He will look you deeply in the eye and never back away from what he finds there. He will raise his voice, bear his teeth, and become a vicious beast to defend you. Against anything. A squirrel, an old boot, the doorbell, a passing car. Even if he knows he would never be able to take down that evil thing, he'll willingly stand between It and You. The dog is well-versed in the symbolic language of love and unity. When you have a dog near you, you have a second heart. He only hopes that you'll feed him. He might try and beg, dance up on his toes, sing a little song and spin around in tight circles, in anticipation of his reward - but even when you never feed him, even when you beat him, toss him out and curse his name, Dog will always love you. Dog will always wait for you. He's here to serve you. Because Dog is honest. Because he really knows that he is Dog for a reason.

Dog and Cat are tied to us, but other animals have also made the decision to take up with their cause. All the little, gentle, busy animals made time for us in their busy lives. Mouse, Rabbit, Ferret, Guinea Pig. And because they're so little and so fragile, those who choose to keep them must be tentative. They need less, but they need less more often - and we, as their Human Host and Friend, must adjust time itself to adapt with them. They are busy, and they teach us to keep ourselves busy too. Busy and aware.

All mammals are very knowing creatures.

Fish are strange pets. Swimming in their fishbowl - that must be kept clear - they're like little lights, and the whole fishbowl a lantern. Fish is a strange pets. You can't train it. You can't touch it. It isn't warm and soft. It even smells a bit bad. But in the way it seems foreign, it softens the heart of whoever tends to its specialized needs. You're learning to love something without any good reason for doing so. Kind of like PRACTICE. That's right. Fish trains YOU.

We're so lucky. Even the solitary reptile is on our side to teach us. Snake and Lizard. Who are forever moody. They call for exactitude and sensitivity. They need the right kind of warmth. The right kind of nourishment. The perfect environment. And they've asked their Friends-That-Keep-Them to know their exact way of living instinctively, and to be sensitive to their exact needs. Folks who keep reptiles must be unique, receptive, and responsible.

Frog is similar, but Frog needs more wetness. Amphibians are always in-between. They call for the same things Snake and Lizard call for, but they offer some added release. Water. A lot of Water. It's their creative outlet. Frogs teach their keepers the value of responsibility and creativity. They say, "Keep yourself healthy in every way - Physically well, on the land, and Emotionally well, in the water."

People keep all kinds of animals as pets . . . The stranger the Human, the stranger the Animal.

And the rest of the message lays in the tiny, soft haven of the Bird. Birds are all magicians. They hold the gift we've always sought after. Controlling the Air. The ability to FLY. I think it's possible birds truly are the manifestation of the human soul. Those who tend to birds must adopt the lessons of all life, of all animals, and of souls. Birds are royal and mysterious. Birds are loving friends and need warmth. Birds are busy and fast. Birds call for space, and often seek what seems like solitude. This is an important lesson: that of appropriate distance and space. In essence, they teach RESPECT. Birds are finicky, and need certain amounts of water, certain foods, enough space to live in their own particular way, controlled levels of light and dark at certain times, certain moods and environments, and perhaps the most important necessity: tasks. Birds need excess. They need toys, and things to figure out. The need to keep an active mind. When a bird is satisfied, he will be himself. He will be Bird, and he will teach you, and finally deliver his most important gift.

That of Song and Potential.
That sugary, joyful Voice.
His perfect, fragile, psychically demanding Egg.

Bird's happiness can almost be measured according to its individual Song - or the lack thereof. A bird won't sing when he's sick or unhappy. But when he is happy, the MOOD of his Song will speak very directly to and of his situation. Because the bird has influence. His body and life ARE his soul. He's lucky. So, when you have the patience and devotion to satisfy a bird, you could certainly satisfy any other thing upon this Earth. The lesson is to treat yourself the way you would treat a bird. It only takes effort, practice, trial and error, and VERY DIRECT INVOLVEMENT.

So, animals. I feel like I was born loving them. When I was little, I wasn't much for dolls and action figures. I wasn't much for dressing up like a Space Man or Mommy. I'd ask Mom to cut off a piece of yarn, or ask Dad to let me borrow one of his ties, and I'd tuck it into my pants. I'd have a tail. And I'd feel more graceful somehow, like Cat, or Lizard, or the great Dinosaur. I'd eat dinner too fast and be protective and tough, like Dog. I'd make a fort inside a cabinet, arrange things just-so, and be like cozy Mouse and Rabbit. I'd ask for permission to go swimming. And in the pool, I'd sometimes be quiet and meditative, sometimes very expressive. It was always a real triumph to come up with a game I could only play while swimming. Permission was an integral step that I had to always take before getting in the water, though. I think, somehow, that was important to keep in mind.

And some days - SPECIAL DAYS - when it felt just-right outside and the sky was clear, I'd borrow a white towel from the linen closet, drape it over my shoulders, and run into the yard. And keep running, with my arms spread wide on both sides. Over the hill in my neighbor's yard. And I'd come up with songs and whistle, and climb up on the wall to perch and sing. Just like a bird. I was using my imagination, and that was important to me. As a child, my imagination relied on animals. For inspiration. And for that reason, I loved every kind of animal. I liked learning about them, and drawing pictures of them, and pretending to be one. It almost felt like I was collecting them. I'd even make up animals of my own to add to my collection.

And I still love all these animals.
And my imagination is still important to me.
The imagination is a condition - one well worth the effort it takes to maintain it.

Because Imagination becomes Skill, and the very Strength that keeps us alive and vertical. Standing. Up and up, and into the sky.

THE GOOD CYCLE.

2009-10-21T23:37:00.000-07:00

Save your voice. It is precious to you.

HOW TO KILL ME:

2009-10-20T22:44:00.000-07:00

Wait until I'm sleeping, and strike me over the head with a lead pipe. But be careful - Sometimes I pretend I'm sleeping for hours. Because I can see deep into the backs of my eyelids. I can see stars and constellations. They move and become animals. And at this time, I'm visited by angels. And I can see you, too. I can see you with my ears, when you're moving, because I'm listening. And the sounds you make give you form, and you become a constellation too. An angel of death.

So, for the sake of your mission, be sure I'm finally sleeping. If I opened my eyes a second too soon, you would forever lose. Because I would run from you.

You will know I'm sleeping when my eyes are shut and you can stand there watching my little eyelids flutter. But remain very still, right over me, for a few moments and watch me. Watch me carefully. Use your eyes like hands, or lullabies. See how my lower half is tucked and hidden, covered softly. How my hand is folded underneath my soft chin. How harmless and in love. And really get into my mind and let your presence be known, even as I lay sleeping, as I am quick to trust anything that chooses not to run from my dream.

And then take your lead pipe, high. Above the kindest things I've been. And bring it crashing down. Through everything. All that is red, red, red. The color of passion.

And do it out of love, you coward.

AXE-TIONS.

2009-10-18T09:10:00.000-07:00

"After I crossed the road, that person honked at me! And she gave me the middle finger! I mean, what the fuck. I hate black people who hate white people who wear tight pants. Can you believe it? Who would do such a thing? I don't like this street anymore. I don't like this whole part of town anymore. That person in that car was so mean. I hate her. Oh, and I just couldn't sit through that movie, either. It sucked. Why would anyone make that movie? They're all terrible people."

I've been thinking about buying a house - a small house with no windows - and filling it with cats and furniture. After a few years, when everything is deeply saturated with dust, mold, and dander, I'd move in, without my inhaler, and slowly begin to die. Because it's not that I'd forget how to breathe, or that I wouldn't try. I simply wouldn't be able to do it. My whole throat would fill up with mucus, and I'd choke.

And choking seems like a fitting way to go. Once upon a time, I felt a pain because I let a few dreams die. But those were my dreams, and I can fight self-sabotage. The Whole was still untouched. But now that I can see, I wonder where the dreamers went, and how long they've been gone.

I wonder who did this. What did this. I'd much rather talk with my eyes.

They don't believe they're bigger than science. Bigger than anything, so any mess made need not be tended to. A small mess never hurt the infinitude of Heaven or Hell or the underground, where dead things live. Unless, of course, it's Heaven on Earth. And could that be the case?

Because I'm suddenly tired from lifting my voice. In silence, there's a second world where I can wait alone. Isolation is the trend, anyway . . . What is alone? Can I go there with what I've got? Self-sufficiency seems an inescapable thought that's been trapped inside the wallet too long. I think I don't want a job. I'm too busy for a job. Who's going to clean up what's right in front of me? I've been employed my whole life, you idiot. I get paid in spirit guides.

And must I be obligated to watch everyone kill their dreams? Where's the light in the eye? I'm blind. Are you in there? This can't be freedom. What is?

I want to help. So how?

If I'm a white person, I want to be a colorless, metallic person - I want you to look at yourself in the mirror.

LONG/HARD.

I GOT YOU, BABE.

2009-10-13T00:33:00.000-07:00

I am a Fox.
I am supposed to die.
If there is anything difficult,
if there is anything dangerous,
that is mine to do.

I bought a watch today. A very special watch. It works, but it doesn't run. I bought it knowing there was no battery. I set the hands to indicate a certain time that never ticks away. Here now, at 12:57 AM, it's partly cloudy, there's a very subtle chill, and it's 4:44 PM. And at 8:30 PM, when I was at dinner, mid-conversation, it was 4:44 PM. Tomorrow morning I'll wake up around 11, and it'll be 4:44 PM. Because 4:44 PM is my time of birth, and if I'm always being born, I will never die.

Because, you see, I don't believe in death. Or, wait, hold the phone. Those were not the words. I ... uh ... oh ... Well, I'll use storytelling to explain my stance on the matter.

It was Isis and Osiris. Isis was a clever girl. In fact, she was the only one to ever learn the Ruler's true name, and she was able to achieve this by playing a clever trick on him. But it was an honest trick, and she was greatly honored for her accomplishment. And it was Isis and Osiris.

And when Osiris died, Isis shapeshifted into a kite and, with her tiny wings, kept flapping until life itself blew back into his body. And, with those small, stale seconds of renewed life, he gave the world the hawk-headed god, Horus. A new warrior chief was born from dark circumstance. And Osiris accepted death. And Isis let him die. And Horus rose out of that shadow.

But even in death, Osiris was never gone.

Because the afterlife needed a voice, and he was to fill this role.

The way I see it, there are two kinds of people messing around on this planet, and they're all waiting to perform "death".

One Person is living, and for that reason, they must teach themselves to die. Throughout this process, this One Person will lose it All. And this person will continue to "lose it All" many times throughout their life. Sometimes several times throughout their day. Maybe every day. For a terrible, heart-wrenching long time. The speed is relative to the individual, and it is, by nature, in a constant state of flux. And you ask, How do you get to Carnegie Hall? And the answer is, Practice. The living must train before they can finally unclench the muscle and let go, and learn to die. But once they build that kind of strength, they'll learn to rely on muscle memory, and they'll find that the act of clenching and unclenching seems to happen willfully.

The Second Person represents the living dead. The living dead have the awesome task of learning to be alive. But awesome task also comes with awesome responsibility. Their test is to show up for the test on time. To be there. To say the words. To open their dead eyes and not only feel their world, but be in it with the rest of us. And in seeing the world, they will learn that they're never alone. And finally take comfort in that.

Luckily, "we" as a team have many great players on both sides. The living dead can teach the living to die gracefully, no matter the situation. Dash the name of the poison. What matters is the medicine. And, in return, the living will teach the living dead to be alive. Because, in life - the whole of life, like a coin with two faces - the chance of union is more important than the union itself. Energy is where we are. And, at all times, Potential Energy is the gift we leave behind.

The give and take of Involvement is interesting, because to learn it, you must first find your place.

And, when you do, you realize that you're a borrower. And that you have no designated place. But instead, you have to build it, and make your place. Your place finds you, but to keep it you have to try.

So if there is anything impossible, it's "being gone". Even in being away, you're never gone.

Whatever energy I use to control the muscles in my face that illustrate the way I think I feel, or shovel broken glass off of the ground, or slowly and deliberately move a pink cotton ball from the surface of a table to the inside of a box, or set the time on a watch with no battery. That magic force I can't see. It's only fair to assume is as much a representation of Me as is my body, or my poetry, or as all the trash that accumulates around me. Except that it's magic, and my belief in that miracle will carry not only me, but everyone I know and love. And I will die at 4:44 PM, my time of birth, and I will never be dead and gone.

So it isn't death I don't believe in. Because the things I don't believe in have never mattered to me. I've never needed them, so I can't even see them. They simply aren't there. And that is that.

It's funny ... See? Well, I suppose you can't see it, so you'll just have to believe me. The watch I mentioned. You know, the one I bought today. Well, I was just sitting here typing, and the old strap just ... broke! It just gave way, and the whole thing fell right off my wrist! What about that! Almost as if the whole thing were scripted ... But you know what I'm gonna do about it?

Tomorrow I'll replace the strap.

WHAT A BITCH.

2009-10-11T00:13:00.000-07:00

Say . . . What's the difference between girls and boys? Well, isn't it obvious? Boys have wee-wees and girls have na-nas. Whatever. Let's cut to the chase. Girls are like boys who know what's important. And boys are like girls with insurmountable dreams. Build bridges. Shit, I don't know. But there you have it, anyway. Now, don't look so vacant . . . I know we could go into something or other about braids and bowl-cuts, but that isn't important. Believe me. I've tried so hard to make it important but the truth is only skin-deep. Are you my species? Yes! Do you like me? Yes! Oh, how marvelous! You've caught my interest. So let's kiss all day, or some crazy shit-something. Or let's use your wee-wee like a megaphone, and my na-na like a podium, and sometime later we'll attract an audience. Now, what to do with an audience . . .

Here's what I'm saying. The whole world is acting. Even my cat is acting. The animals are acting. Like some fickle wind blowing through a cast of limp marionettes, left to hang or dance. And who works the wind? Probably some married man. His wife is the weather, or some other kind of writer, and she's lovely. They probably have a couple of kids. Their son is treacherously handsome and bold, and their teenage daughter's got a steady boyfriend. You know. Little units. Simple success, or whatever. Tender fingers.

As far as greater success goes, I think the chemical is rather base. Influence. You either want it or you don't. But, regardless, you have it. So you can either work with it and polish it until it shines, or you can work against it, sand it down until it bleeds into a ghost and drains. A diamond or a hologram diamond. And money grows on trees. Any pig could fly. Do you know what I'm saying?

It's funny. I'm no master of domestication, believe me. I've been flea-bitten and gnawing at my feet for aeons, but that doesn't mean much. Domesticated things are things that are, quite naturally, helpful, friendly, and accessible. Think about a thunderstorm. Whatever's left is residual. Sounds like atmosphere to me. So why is climate-change a part of pop culture? I mean, it doesn't really possess the structure to support its own popularity . . . Huh?

I think winter is different than summer, but both are reasonable. Pool toys and Christmas trees. Someone domesticated the seasons, and I want to know who it was. Because I want her autograph.

You can believe it or refuse to believe it, but your power animal knows the way. These secrets are a part of its law. No, really, find your power animal. Okay, so maybe you don't like being Turtle. That's no concern of mine. I'm girl Fox, and I accept this. However, the matter should be concerning you. Because, congratulations! You've been cast as a character in this production of The Earth Walk. That world-famous fable, set in whatever age we're in. And it's your role, man. To be Turtle. So you might as well make the most of it, y'know. That shell don't move itself. So, power animals . . .

First off, does 1+1=1? If so, it looks like this is one satisfied fox.

So . . . an enormous bird on fire told me, in a dream, that Turtle is the island itself. And what idiot doesn't want to be an island? But this god-bird also said something about earth and water, elegant protection and breathing with amphibious lungs. I can't say for sure, but I doubt they sell any of those things at the corner store, so it's definitely in your best interest to feel blessed. Go ahead. It only hurts for the first little while.

My life coaches look like freaks. Picture this. They've got tails and feathers and pieces of bone sticking up through their skin. But they're the smartest people I know, and I really like them . . . Oh, who am I kidding? I love them. And, unlike all the silly wee-wees I know, they love that about me. We do everything together. Sky diving, scuba diving, getting borderline wasted off cheap beer, translating poisonous vegetables to rainbows, et cetera. And it all boils down to one thing, over and over again. Good old-fashioned fun. You could consider this a science.

Either that or a fine art. Oh-h-h, fine art. The few, the proud. Fine artists breed fine art, but it would be a curse to assume all fine artists are orphans. On the contrary, these wee-wees and na-nas were born from good blood, and they all must've had at least one good, sturdy climbing tree on or near their property, growing up. Otherwise, where would all of that fine, artistic inspiration have come from? One strong tree and a million limbs. Fine artists and their families eat gold meat up in their family trees. And all true orphans are full, for any good family knows that the best place to store left-overs is in someone else's belly. It's a love of responsibility. Love in general. Very base, you see.

So you may wonder, will it be necessary for us to hold hands throughout? Oh, God, of course not. Empty-handedness is a very attractive quality to discover in either of the sexes. Others will feel more at ease in your company. Some may even kick up their heels and make themselves at home. But because your hands are empty won't mean they have to be idle. There are all sorts of puzzles to play with here in Heaven. An array of finger foods, little ponds for skipping stones, magic doors, and whatnot. I mean, it's Fantasy Land. Daydream City. Occupation: Whoever-The-Fuck. You string the lights. And if you're already a bolt of lightening, at least there's some polarity. That'll keep you striking. Bless my soul.

But, more importantly, bless your soul.

I mean, what else have you got to do on a Sunday night?

UNSOLVED MYSTERIES.

2009-10-07T01:41:00.000-07:00

Calling, calling. Is there any body out there? Is there. Oh, Great Spirit . . . Was it you jiggling the toilet handle, or was it just that damn ghost who licks the leftovers from his fingers as he claws through the curtain and the wall. Every evening, when it rains. Every night, on the floor.

And my new favorite song is showing as little doubt as I possibly can. Can I do that? Oh, yeah, well of course I can. Give it here. I'll show you how it's done. It's all about auras, really. Quite simple. The aura is a globe glowing a color that represents the aesthetic sensibilities of whatever sick eye is fixed on you. Mine's blue. And you?

I say! Could I be using obeah without knowing it? Oh, God . . . please no.

Wait, God. We're right here. Around the corner, in the dark, smoking joints in your name. We swear our love to you, over all the ice cream in our freezer. Cookies-and-cream. And the cucumber, too. Or why don'tcha geh-tah life, creeptaster. Who d'ya think you are, flunking litmus tests, puking in the fern? You're going crazy out there in your forest, aren't you? Well, you're not alone in that, Big Brother, 'cause all us foxes going there too. Crazy, that is. So peace out, Mt. Meadow. The Big Mango, as we call it, has some name written all over it. Not mine. Not yours. But some.

And I can see a million miles into the distance. But I won't ever tell a soul what's there. It's like a dream come true, short and sweet. Short and sweet. I can show you. Follow me. Way deep into the hollow tree. I'm trying to wedge all three swords free.

. . . and once I find that idiot needle, I'll make a compass point and go.

And on that day, we will bake silver bile from scratch, and the ingredients we use will alter the course of our duraflame, dual-engine lives. Someone marked the porcelain base. Smells like cat. It's cat urine, and it reeks from the bathroom.

God, again, please save the Mastodon. Bottle her last drop of blue blood. Or is it too late? It's never . . .

Oh how I'd like to create something so abashing, so cataclysmic, that it would lower even the most sturdy ruffian to his knees. I try to think of the heaviest, most solid things, swallow them whole and digest them, and then purge myself of them.

Anvils drip from the angles of my eyes.

And like a blast from a geiser, I want them to leave me with such a force that birds in flight are knocked to Heaven, leaving an indention in the ceiling that acts as a cruel and clever reminder of what could be, should be, would be. And I want gentle, house-bound spirits to tear through into another dimension, leaving gaping rifts to hang open like flaring nostrils. The earth would leak air and deflate into a worthless, rubber sack for me to fill.

The bounty would be mine, and I would refuse to share.

Kings and queens tug-tug my glossy robe, but I will kick them like dogs. In diamond-encrusted slippers with very tough soles. I will never find another needle lodged through my five feet. And as I sneer here, as I stomp here, as I swagger and strut, the celestial prosecutors will gaze on, swinging their iron shackles. The gods will not condone such outrageous gluttony. On their signal, mercury will rain down and pool in the palms of my hands.

But I'll lap it away and pat my belly, leaving the dried, dusty silver morsels on my lips and at the corners of my mouth. Another shining trophy. Not a soul. No one dares to smite me. At this altitude, the lightening, the thunder, the heavy, green clouds. They are mine to count, to polish, and to cache away in a vaulted tomb. They are mine, they are mine. I do not want them, they are mine.

No, am I intelligent? Am I so cruel? I thought, perhaps, "reserved". No, I'm not feeling blue. I would never expect that from you. But at least try to understand. I think hard in the place of having to work hard. It's the claim of erudition. It's reading alone. Some sacrifice. But I care and love through whatever "through" I can stomach.

Until I vomit.

A FOX IS A WOLF CARRYING FLOWERS.

2009-10-03T10:42:00.001-07:00

You're the moon and I'm a werewolf. When I'm exposed to you, some feminine evil will escape from the ground and call me like a slave. And I kill all the things I love, and wonder where they've gone in the morning. And I'm beginning to think Venus is an asteroid. So I carry all books tight against the palms of my hands, as if they were The Bible, hoping that they'll pierce me like a silver bullet, through the heart - and I'll never be love's dumb servant again.

This tastes like medicine.

COMEDY NIGHT.

2009-09-29T09:59:00.000-07:00

MY DREAM DATE.

2009-09-23T06:34:00.000-07:00

Raccoon Warrior, Robin Hood.
Teach me to wear your mask.
Be generous with yourself.
Be generous with your good deeds.

JEAN-CLAUDE AND CHRISTO.

2009-09-22T22:59:00.000-07:00

It's officially my birthday, and birthdays lend a person a certain voice, or a certain kind of ancient wisdom - - and the lucky ones seek to release it on these days. And here, I'll speak it. Your name could be any one word, or as many as you'd like. I am every word, and the winter is a dark wing. Behind it, we'll find departure. Lift-off. I'm throwing colorful stones down a bottomless well. To watch them "plunk" in a dark lake, and delight in them falling forever. You'll die inside a book, and learn to kill it. Learn to bend with it. And beyond all these walls of water, a crystal, an infant sun is warming, to rise above it all. To gather every misplaced piece of sunken moon. I tore off your head for you in a dream, to prove I could do it. And it was in that moment that the poison died, and became my medicine. Pyramid Earth.

2 x 11 = a solution.

GUARD THE WATER.

2009-09-20T13:33:00.000-07:00

The Rook, The Bishop, and The Queen are the new Holy Trinity,
and the King is the glory of God, and they orbit around him
like miraculous hands, all guarding, all blocking, all extending
into the great blue valley of Earth, on and on.

2009-09-19T08:03:00.000-07:00

HIGH ROAD or the horse's spine. FISTS FIRST and faith in the wanga.

The obeah, whole.

I dreamt I woke up.

THE BEST ADVICE I HAVE TO GIVE.

2009-09-16T00:37:00.000-07:00

KNOW what you've DECIDED you're DOING,
leave the rest to be resolved.

It's more about balance. When something doesn't feel quite right, focus on making it feel right again, rather than simply yielding to that sense of anxiety. Anxiety can cripple entire nations. So, be your own nation. Set an example. Represent yourself, and do so honestly, in ways you know will inspire you to feel calm and happy. But know that this kind of honesty often takes time to learn, so be gentle with yourself. You're learning. Don't act. Understand, and let it be you. But, most importantly, never sell the things that are important to you, and always be prepared to work hard to keep those things, even if it means you have to spend the rest of your life working.

Fortunately, I think it's the small imbalances that pose the most significant threat to the mind and body. It's funny. It's suddenly so easy to find myself every place I go, and I know it's because I've found what I've been looking for. My path. I feel thankful and eager. I'll never step anyplace else again. Thank Thunderbird for that.

DECODE THIS / TWO SPELLS.

2009-09-13T14:58:00.000-07:00

the square protects.

the circle is the method.

the triangle is the tool.

means me.

means the child has died.

means i'm here to help.

means i've always loved you.

means i've caught your scent. i'm after you.

means it's worth the risk.

means the pieces fit.

means we're family.

is the formula.

HONEYCOMB, MEGA-TASTE!

2009-09-12T22:35:00.001-07:00

WRITING FROM FEBRUARY 19TH, 2007:

This is a strange arena. It's so big and round. You could go around and around forever. That's funny. Hah-hah! Hey, astronaut-man! Watch me turn a circle! Here I go ...

doiafjdaoijgroa9te24242!!#1ignof!!!!! GDAOIGJAD!

In order to reclaim my space (not Myspace, "my space"), I am going to ride on horseback through the eastern woods. When I dismount and open my eyes, I'll find myself on North Milton, with a gun pointed at my skull. And I'll ask, "Why would anyone - especially you, stranger - want to kill me?" There's no motivation. No wealth, no fame, no charm, no beauty. Nothing to carry off. You can't live through me, and why would you want to?

I've met the world's most beautiful person, and it's like laying, bare-boned, in a Mercurial solarium.
To open my mouth and express such things would be like beating a dead dog.
As it's always been, I'm the only one who can see and know.

Dear God,
Send me Home. Neither you nor I exist, so why must we play these roles? I've never been fond of an actor's climactic hand-gestures. Aren't you playing the part of The Omnipresent? Shouldn't you know by now? So send me to my spaceship. I miss the asteroid belt, the moon rock, and the extraterrestrial language. How am I holding up, in comparison to the other Martians? Haven't I served enough time? Haven't I made my mark? Haven't you seen my crop circles? Aren't you literate? They read, "I'm ready. Take me back." Well, let's go!

Pah-lay, Tee-yah Ka-looh - The Sun & Moon,
Little Astrotraveler

P.S. When I take off, I'm leaving my eyes. They're a nice brown-green, with some yellow. Large and very shiny. Be mindful, though. Keep a tab, and make sure that they're not sold as a pair. I want one eye to be matched with a black eye, and the other to be matched with an eye that is very blue. Write that down so that you might remember. I'm doing you apes a favor.

Adieu!

YEAH, RIGHT. NO, LEFT!

2009-09-12T22:10:00.000-07:00

WRITING FROM MARCH 19TH, 2007:

I was a fire-stoker, stock broker, scheduled joker, chain smoker, secret-cloaker, faux-Baroquer, super soaker.

I drove home feeling wicked with my wicked smile. I seem to be under the impression that I am up to no good. In reality, I am unequivocally fair. My idea of mischief is knocking over an empty bottle with my shoe or swinging a stick at a distant object. In reality, I hurt fly nor flea. I'm not up to anything. I'm only five-foot-three. I just want to sit behind tinted glass and stare because I know that my thoughts cannot be read. Human evolution hasn't taken us that far ... Or has it?

As a contributor, I feel incredibly unfazed. As a distributor, I feel like an exotic insect - colorful and new, but disgusting. An insect is an insect. Don't waste your time denying that you dislike insecto-me. Let's swat her out with your creased-over newspaper or crush her with that big guy's big boot. Yuck! A bug!

I read and write for someone and something else.
Everything I do is for someone and something else.
Is that unhealthy? Am I breathing in toxins? Is this a trap?

Boy, what an annoyance.
Where's my allowance?
Bare feet and fire ants.

Come marching, one by one.

I'M NOT YOUR DRIVER.

2009-09-12T22:05:00.000-07:00

WRITING FROM MARCH 23RD, 2007:

I'm too impatient for a formal education. I hate being told what to do. I hate that I can't smoke indoors and that I can hear birds singing through open windows, knowing that I can't always be with them. I wanna be outside singin' too! Stop your yamma-yamma and let's sit in a circle in the grass. I hate that I have no credibility and that I can't just go ahead and take a Holocaust Studies class. Once I take that class, I'm done. I'm out. I'm through. There's nothing more I want out of college. I want to have my papers about the Lodz ghetto and Sobibor and the systematic killing of the mentally unwell to be read. I want to speak with an aging old man about what should never have happened. I want to come across a person whose heart is warm and wise and has embraced the idea of 12 million. God, I love the dead. They were stolen from me and I want them back. God, I miss them. Oh, comely.

How does persecution affect you?

I'm asking because I want to know.
I think this idea dictates a lot of my actions and influences a lot of my decisions.
The person I am, right here, right now, is a reflection of what I've learned about human suffering.
I want to come to an understanding. Where do I start?

Where did you start?

By the time I'm thirty, nearly every Holocaust survivor will have died. You can't survive life, lion-child. Once you're in it, you're in it. Might as well pick up a paint brush. Might as well open up your mouth and breath loudly until you're lightheaded. Might as well be okay with it, 'cause you're not goin' anywhere, ever. Coming to terms was uncomfortable, to say the least, but my studies have taught me that there is no such thing as "luck". Regardless of what you see and do, feel and think, are and are not, there is no first place. There are no prize winners. There is no consolation award. There is no drunken losers' banter and badmouthing-comradery in the back alley after the trophies have been handed out. It's best to live for those who have not yet accepted that fact. Try and comfort them, as they have not yet discovered their alien heritage.

Are we an experiment, wrapped in tradition and social curiosity?
Why are we the only species with a corrupt and out-of-control pecking order?
Why are we the only species not holding a stick in-between our round, yellow teeth?
Why are we not huddled in trees, wet from the rain, making noises through our noses?

It's good that there is always that one thing,
or person,
or hobby, or saying
that keeps me grounded, otherwise I'd float away.

It's strange that I'm a solid.
My ancestors are sitting behind a control panel, nebulae away, remembering me.
I'm doin' fine. I pray that you're gathering the data you need.
Don't worry, Father.

Oh ... and ...
if you really think it's you, it's probably you.

BIRTHSTONE: SAPPHIRE.

2009-09-12T21:45:00.000-07:00

JOURNAL ENTRY FROM APRIL 15TH, 2007:

I'm becoming Bernadette Merrifield.

I'm insane with excitement when I see a fox run in front of my car. Did I hit it? Did it get away? Oh, God, I hope it isn't broken. I hope I didn't break it. I'm happy in the shade and in the paint-peel, red country shed, millions of miles from the idea of skyscrapers and turbo engines. Out of all the planets, I've always considered Neptune to be the most forgettable. I like pretending to be very knowledgeable about certain animals that I've only ever seen once, on a half hour-long television special that I watched three-and-a-half years ago. I always get goose pimpled before I touch a snake, but after the initial contact, I want to crouch there, pinching it, forever. I've denounced the nature vs. culture debate. You're no > I, mister so-and-so. My snake an' I are doin' fine. We certainly haven't forgotten the eighth planet from the sun, that's for damn sure. Go on an' leave us be. We ain't hurtin' nobody, no how.

Some people are crazy. I think I like them best.

Yours! Honest To Goodness!,
Bernadette Merrifield &
Kelly Seagraves

P.S.
Here's a picture I drew. It isn't very good, my finger was bleeding, but I hope you like it anyway.

I feel like the first televised human, distorted and unrecognizable, ailing from a lack of technology. When will I learn not to broadcast the message before the public is ready to receive it? On Friday morning, the 13th, around 11:00 AM in Washington, Missouri, the holy trinity was making its way into town. Mind you, I make up the third leg of this religious triad. Upon passing a pond, we spot a heron. "It's a good day for birds!" says The Father. The Son is quietly looking out the window. The Holy Ghost is in awe of the bird.

For the first time since Wednesday evening, I'll have to fall asleep in an empty room. I am dirt poor and tracing the rim of obscurity with the tips of my fingers, but I've been blessed with the grit and gusto to keep track of every unique correlation I observe. I had four stones in my pocket. Now they are arranged on a table. Isn't that nice?

But, Lord, what a show! There were blinking spheres, everywhere. I must have looked like a little shrunken head, bobbing, from that sprawling stage. My face was lit by powerful bulbs - red, white, and blue. I've never understood why some people crook their mouth in one direction or another when they're pronouncing certain words. Whichever direction it's crooked, that mouth can really turn a tune. I achieved two of many goals. Thank you, Mr. Melody.

I think I'll sit and try and untwist my guts. Let it be known that there's so much more that I'd rather be doing.

1-2-3-4.

2009-09-12T21:24:00.000-07:00

DREAM FROM MAY 10TH, 2007:

I dreamt, last night, about a few of the things I'd like to do this summer: visit the Sears Tower, see a killer whale, and stick my toes in the ocean. In my dream, I was in Chicago, in a cab that was passing right beneath the Sears Tower, and there was something sticky and purple that was spreading across the entire city, through the air. We were desperate to escape, but I didn't want to leave without knowing where Taylor and Andy were. I was in a panic, thinking we needed to turn around and find them, but the cab driver ignored me. We kept driving. We drove to a marine park, but they had locked their gates. They were tall and blue. So, back to the cab - driving fast. The purple slime had spread south. We drove straight to the ocean, and upon arrival, Taylor and Andy were already there with their feet in the tide. The beach was deserted, but the boys seemed happy. I stepped in and a huge wave swept over me. I was up to my neck in saltwater. It took me less than a few seconds to realize that I was now surrounded by hermit crabs. That tide had somehow absorbed every hermit crab from the Atlantic and puked them onto the one stretch of shore I happened to be standing on. I started to scream, I fled, but everywhere I moved there were more crabs. All I wanted was to get away from the water and sand, but I couldn't find the boardwalk anywhere.

I woke up in a decent mood. I must have done something right, at some point. I guess I just can't remember everything.

WELTSCHMERZ.

2009-09-12T21:20:00.000-07:00

WRITING FROM MAY 11TH, 2007:

Hello Humans,

Call me "Dora", and know that I'm only trying to prove that I am like paper. You say that it's summer and you'd like to find God - well, I've gone off looking. I can see Him, mounted on a shadow, spread-eagled with several stars. I can't bring myself to consume another source, and I've nothing left to give. I envy the tree, where everything is balanced. The maintenance of my human is exhausting, I'm feeling greedy. I'm making a heavy world, a second heavier - I can't leave the ground. I want to float, with a sign that says, "I Told You I Could". But don't be mistaken. I've always loved these things. I've always loved the four walls that held you in. You're never at more than one place at one time. You'd sit with me. It was understood. It all seemed so simple. Too simple. It should be more of a challenge: accepting, exchanging, standing. I've come to realize that I'll never be able to appreciate the jolts inside of me. I never asked for a mind of my own. I never wanted to be sliced from infinity. Abscisio infiniti, it never made sense to me. So allow them room to poke at me. Let them study the way I ripped. It's wise to chart these sorts of things. I wanted to seduce the Martian, visit the red planet and roll in the dirt. I wanted to find the petrified ocean and stomp on its surface. I could write about it, but I'd rather rest a while. I'll write when I'm older and understand. With your time, please save the Ivory-billed Woodpecker. Please respect the birds who sing for you. They keep coming. They never stop. For as long as you'll listen, they'll always be singing. With my time, I'll try and get rid of this headache.

I'm learning their names, at a slow pace. I'll continue learning.
I can rejoice! I can finally put my thoughts to rest and listen, forever.
I'll yawn and stretch.
No more questions.

Gavia Immer.

GROWLS, WHISTLES, AND CHATTERS / 2012 PROPHECY.

2009-09-12T21:02:00.000-07:00

WRITING FROM JULY 2ND, 2007:

one to replace another:

video -> vireo
tangerine -> tanager
curly -> curlew

a thrasher. a chat. i shouldn't have whipped poor will. a stint. a rail. i'm the widow of ole' chuck-will. it'll take a while. i'm angry. this is my unrelenting, cold-steel scream in the face a demon mother's six hundred and sixty-sixth demon son. it's a trick of the light, a tick on the crown of my head. the urbanites meet at the commons and talk like sick toads. they say the old hag lived to be twenty-six. she never went anywhere. she never left home. she'd lay still and allow ants to crawl all over her skin. they'd get up into her nose. nary a trickle of mucus. never an ahchoo. no "god bless you". ants in her nose, crawling up her tubes, up into the wrinkled grey of her brains. she watches a man - many men. she watches them run to elders, watches them as they ask a wealthy neighbor to heave a solution from a leather-bound reference guide. so long as they're running, she says. they crave the book's binding over its concept, she says. they all spiral towards sunday, she says. they marry prostitutes, she says. they give birth to hogs.

they see a bird, not a young starling.

chew before you swallow. are you heron this? red-shouldered, gold-crested, gone "cuckoo". goodbye. loud, crazy laughter haunts the lakeshore all winter. you are being mocked. you are constantly being mocked.

see me. i'm here. where are you?

away! ... away! ... away we go!
okalee! ... okalee! ... o!

GOLDEN PURIFIER.

2009-09-12T20:53:00.000-07:00

WRITING FROM JULY 28TH, 2007:

Until some terrible global catastrophe befalls us, I will remain useless. I can't throw myself in front of Hell's wolves until Hell's wolves have us backed into a corner. I want magic. I want to call upon my animal sentinels. Lion, Fox, Cat, Eagle, Robin, Whale, Wolf, Loon, Crow. I'll protect a little beetle. I'll keep it cupped in my hands and stumble through the forest. I'll use it to perform alchemy. At the end of the day, when a sacrifice must be made, I want to exhale spirits through my mouth.

When I was a kid, I used to think I could break through time, like it was a piece of glass. I thought that, at the right moment, I could close my eyes and see only white and blue. I thought I could reach out for a crystal sword with which I could slice through into someplace calm and quiet, where I could sit on a glacier and stroke white tigers. I've been groping around for that crystal sword for as long as I can remember. I tried really hard to get a hold of it, once, riding in the backseat of our old Buick. We were on our way to my grandparents' house in Fort Valley, Georgia. I can't remember, now, why I needed it. Perhaps that's why I wasn't able to find it - I haven't ever truly needed to cut my way through a time barrier. I really thought it would save me, though. From the dark of the car, from the time it took to get from one state to another, from being a child. I don't know. I thought it would save me from all of that. Now, I can only hope it will save everyone else.

I didn't know it then, when I was a kid, but there's something special about crystal. There's something in it, I think. Like those crystal skulls - Mayan, Aztec, whatever. They say there might be information encoded inside of them - information that we can't read yet, but, when the time comes, could change everything. Scientists don't care much for the skulls, but I like them. There's always some kind of little treasure inside of a skull.

I'm in that mood I get in sometimes - the mood that just forces me to laugh at anthropologists for pretending to understand so much, as if they're very familiar with the rules to a certain game, knowing that tradition will keep the game from becoming something more. Nature versus culture ... I can't stop thinking about that concept. As in every conflict, there has to be some middle ground - reliable sentient resources, a living library, telepathic iconoclasm, an infinite plane of everything and nothing, a comprehensive understanding of "belief" (as an idea, not a cultural practice), where there is no passage or scenery or points A and B, where everything is intuitive and "psychosomatic" means nothing.

I really believe that I'm from someplace else. I think I could probably transform into some untamed, peculiar, and boundlessly cognizant extraterrestrial creature if I really wanted to. Maybe I shouldn't be telling you all of this ...

Maybe I'm just psychotic.

MIRROR BLADE.

2009-09-10T01:12:00.000-07:00

ALL HEROES RIDE HORSES, AND THOSE HORSES HAVE NAMES.

2009-09-07T08:00:00.000-07:00

Nobody understands me. They don't get it. My dream is not to fall in love and be happy. It's not to be a well-respected artist. It's not to be a revolutionary or resistance fighter. The Devil's advocate.

I want to be a superhero.

I'd go by the nickname Caravaggio, or The Voice, or The Smith. The variation would be a matter of dialect. I'd ride a black horse called God. I would never rescue the innocent or punish the guilty in a way that is direct and immediate . . . Instead, I'd lead the bad guys around, so that the trouble they get themselves into forces them to adapt, and unwittingly do good things. Always a step ahead of their mean streak. They would learn to live and thrive off of the thrill of generosity, habit-forming good deeds. And I'd disappear and reappear before them - these bad guys - over and over again, in flashes, in little scenes I'd pull together out of nowhere, and I would haunt them all the way down to the core. They'd think they were dreaming. They'd fear me. And my only hero-tool would be a portable theatre, simple props, honesty. I would interrupt so many villains, so many would-be victims, so many times that I would be seen as a pest. I'd be cast out. Treated with disdain. But if only the public knew . . . that I was on a first-name basis with Fate. And the sad few who understand the wisdom in folly, and who sense nobility in the tramp that's me, will seem most worthless. And they, too, will suffer silently. Because my allies are too humble. And the tragic paradox of my hero role dictates that I am forever obligated to the cast of characters of my nightmares. The needle pulling the thread. Always a step ahead. Not really ever playing the game. I am the idiot who rigs the machine in favor of the best possible tomorrow. And this role I accept gladly, even quite willingly, as it is the only way.

The one who will glimpse me most accurately will be my arch nemesis. The one who causes me the most grief. Who knocks me off my horse and kicks dirt in my eyes. And, in return, I will play the most gruesome tricks on him. I will ruin his soul. True combatants, who see each other as the greatest threat. This person is the only one who will ever really see me, who will ever truly appreciate the work I do, and who will ever really need me. My one True Love.

And if the day does finally arrive when there is no need for this distinction between "good" and "bad", my arch nemesis and I will find ourselves in each other's arms, disarmed for the first time, and it will be our crowning moment. And once that moment has passed, it will all be over. The lights will dim, the curtain will fall, and the audience of Heaven will give us applause - but the sound will never reach our ears. Behind the veil, we will be gone.

VIVIAN GIRL.

2009-09-06T13:56:00.000-07:00

LIQUID MERCURY.

2009-09-04T09:39:00.001-07:00

A few weeks ago, I dreamt that I was standing at the side of the road, watching two gray foxes, especially luminous. They were roaming together, near the brush, one after the other, on the other side. Now, allow me to introduce you to My God.

My God is, first and foremost, visionary. This is an all-seeing God. The tides that sweep wetness and life into me, the baptismal rain, humid beneath the veil, the harvest, the hoarding, and the trance of cold Christmas. This is all a part of the vision. A policy of cycles is practiced here. Circles. God has me curling. And My God is wayward. A hunter God. Red-shouldered wings and a dark body. The predator God is sharp, sturdy, and graceful. Never a God to stay near you. Instead, I am married to the boot heels of My God, and I willfully follow where Heaven prevails. Heaven provides. From the sun, the God-eye, some luck pours through each morning. Both dawns shine and invite true magic, and blue midnight is mother, is a cloak and a cure. This policy of cycles. And every ritual act is new, and this God will never die. This is a beast of potential, eternally young, full of guts. Never the same as yesterday. God of rebirth, most extraordinary. A God, everything-but-ordinary. A rare, beautiful and most persistent God-of-All-Things. Magnanimous warrior. The lone star.

It's no coincidence, my polarity to whomever. I do only as I am instructed, even as I'm driven down a hole. The gift of the charmer is thrifty and indirect, like a tramp. Slow-growing, panoramic. My God is a God of Tomorrow, and for one to doubt my theatre would be an epic misfortune. God-fearing is tasteless. The trickster, the trickster, the idiot, the fool. The initiation. The invocation. The rite of passage. Walking a Right. Act with playful purpose. It was meant to be.

ROAD TO RECOVERING.

2009-09-03T11:54:00.000-07:00

Czech it, doc. They call me Back N. Action.
I was born to bend my right ring finger.

DAMN HARBOUR.

2009-09-03T01:09:00.000-07:00

Mega-shriek. The siren, siren, siren sounds, larking about the base of a tidal wave. So deep, green-blue, and arching tall. To deliver the death blow. Creeping in a rat's fine, grease-soaked body - with those thin, repulsive bones at work. And distantly - from a rock, sea stone, sand castle - the siren screams, her juke box tossed across a perfect axe. Jerking open the cold throats of masked villains, unmasked. Vulture-winged and proud in black heaven.

Angels recoil. Mad fluttering from the annex. All up and away. It was their soft, passive refusal of a ban set on sweet and lovesick tidings. The coop is bone dry and wintering now. The prose is dense, is bored white, is packing snow. This hard lunar lockdown. I'm suffocating in it. In all the poetic mystery of it. Paused elusive over dim, heavy animal tracks. Spelt "murder" at the sinking warm breast of tidy Virgo.

But to count the rich hills of spring again. To be lodged in that annex again. If the price were set, I'd gladly pay it twice.

It would be my pleasure, or pressure, whatever god-hand makes me move. If those clean palms could pull me. Place me inside the Promise Ring. Where I'll keep the bench warm for whomever. Bring me the Road Block. I'll kill it with my eyes. That crooked old tin-man. Rusted at the joint, with his hard lips sealed shut.

This is a Tate Modern of the mind. The pace of the procession could drive a dead dog to insanity. Gnaw that dumb, yellow bone - but for history's sake, please grind through it faster. Keep towards the satisfying, sticky bits.

Look, see! It was just a simple pastoral painting. A tired landscape in muted colors, lazy hues. And who are you? Haven't I seen you here before? In a vision. Ah, yes! And I tried to kiss you, up on the tin roof. Here above this sullen, grey tree. But you weren't having it, and a rabbit on the run caught your attention, and you were momentarily distracted. It was pure pain, like being slowly impaled upon a gorgeous sword. Without all the gleaming.

But, as all Courage knows, Beuys don't cry.

BASE CHAKRA.

2009-08-22T11:03:00.000-07:00

Kate Bush New Moon Red Hair Recharge
Awaken Fox Magic / Hawk Magic
Sun in Virgo / Moon in Libra
Rebel Without a Cause

ME AS A BOY.

2009-08-20T22:38:00.000-07:00

If I were a boy, I'd be shy and mysterious.
If I were a boy, I'd be charming. Smart charming.
If I were a boy, I'd stay clean while painting.
I'd be delicate and eccentric. Funny. Laugh easy.
Big white stars in my boy-eyes. Ideals. Variety.
I'd have boyfriends. I'd have girlfriends.
I'd have a wife and a son. I'd like cats.
My work would be concept-heavy and bright.
Glamorous garbage, tin cans, taxidermy. The gift of life.
I'd be insightful - a visionary. Me and my lover(s).
Dating clever women, passionate men, my opposites.
I'd have a heart condition. Libra cusp. Very prone.
And though it effects none of the above,
the little puzzle of my persona,
I must admit that I am not the man
you think I am.

MOODS.

2009-08-19T09:48:00.000-07:00

How do you seduce them? Because I wanna get you up against a wall, and I can't quite figure out which buttons to ... pull. Or you could, you know ... "show me around". Chances are I'll chicken out, which is to be expected anyway, of freaks like me. Some kind of idiot lust mirage. But is it inappropriate to ask for a peek? Because I want a peek at it. Young curious in the Show Me State. I mean, how does this thing work? I want to watch it. So make it go. Let it go. Horsepower. Red animals. Better move fast. The thing goes like lightening.

MARS, COLD EARTH.

2009-08-14T10:16:00.000-07:00

Writer's block. Dead heart, call Anubis. The jackal-faced necrophiliac. Call Maat, have her approach the bench - to weigh that lean meat against the feather of truth. Stele of Revealing, it's still too heavy for the afterlife.

DON'T LOOK BACK. YOU CAN NEVER LOOK BACK.

2009-08-12T11:39:00.000-07:00

I want a motorcycle. I want a motorcycle, and I'm not joking.

All the pug-faced nothings of the world can't touch me on my motorcycle. Its engine is a violent aura, or Sekhmet out for blood, and the whole machine grinds like a bone saw. Nothing toughens the tendon like a hawk on wheels of fire. Studded leather vest, with extra fringe. Drink that mouthwatering daydream. No angels allowed.

Oh, shit. They found a cure for lovesickness.

LANGUAGE IS EASY.

2009-08-07T00:14:00.000-07:00

Once the Pathway has been found, the Coyote’s soul
will resonate with a sense of ultimate fulfillment
as they begin the exploration of their “mission,”
their voices will raise in celebration
as their Song of Life rings forth.

HOWLING FOUR EVER.

THE BOYS OF SUMMER.

2009-08-04T11:45:00.000-07:00

Parts of my right hand haven't touched water since the night of the crucifixion. On the butcher block, or the cutting room floor, or whatever cold place they layed me down, they let me die beneath the glowing rainbow insides of oyster shells and the angels of technology. As I lay there, dead before the white shamans, my tiny spirit was initiated beneath the foothills of the Underworld, and I was abducted by righteous devils who got mouthy and drunk off my blood offering. And under the reflective blade, the healer married himself to me. He took his cleaver to the stigmata, cut it up to the knuckle, down to the wrist, and drooled into the incision. Bandaged from top to bottom. I almost expect the cocoon on my arm to open with wings, a fat yellow butterfly. But as more and more of the dressing is slowly pulled back and peeled away, and more of the dirty new hand revealed, I take an even greater joy in scratching away all the old, dead skin. It falls in flakes, little brief spasms of summer snow, from the pink of my dead palm's backside. This is exquisite meat. I could feed the poor.

ONLY THE STRONG SURVIVE.

2009-07-28T11:38:00.000-07:00

EARNING A NEW RIGHT HAND.

LEARNING VIRGO.

2009-07-20T01:07:00.000-07:00

I'm finally writing that play. Greek sculptures bursting from the podium. Artemis and Apollo coming-of-age fantasy. Rated PG-13. Some crime, beautiful plumes and gunshots like bells. Broadway for slobs.

WE'RE AN ARMY.

2009-07-19T01:49:00.000-07:00

Cups, cups, cups. That swagger, that strut. Just meditating. Just balancing those fields of energy. Must be an appeal from Heaven. Must be an apple from heathens. Must be a force field in Eden. Neptune in Libra, under control. I got direction.

POWDER BLUE.

2009-07-17T00:25:00.001-07:00

I like laughing more than I like fainting.
I like comfort more than I like warriors.
I like whistling more than I like working.
I like magnets more than I like nostalgia.
I like sunshine more than I like barns.
I like wild dogs more than I like politicians.
I like Sunday more than I like church organs.
I like branches more than I like the kitchen table.
I like resounding success more than I like a good story.
I like cleanliness more than I like godliness.
I like comedy more than I like anything.

Three raccoons crossed the road, running. Those masked magicians.
And yet another fox, looking me dead in the eye. Fox all day, all night.

LET'S CHANGE GEARS.

2009-07-15T03:24:00.000-07:00

I made like Harry Potter and ... well, the rest is nobody's business. Just me and the unsung hero-gods of pop music, petty theft, and storm drains. Because magic is real. Because souls really do sing. Because plans are for dead men. Because nothing is what it seems to be. Because there's so much more. Because there's no such thing as "right", "wrong", and "I don't know". Because the dreams you had as a little kid were so pure and honest. Because humans together are tiny insect swarms. Stinging, stinging, stinging. Because the dreams I have now are prophetic and reoccurring. All that dark hair. Because I don't belong here or anywhere, because I just don't belong. Thank God for that. Because Eagle dragged me in a vision. The Pyramid of the Sun. Forgive and forget. This serious fun. True crime. Romantic comedy. Biblical verse. Birth of Venus. Dead man walking. Beat it.

I DEDICATE ALL OF IT
TO THE LEGACY OF MICHAEL JACKSON.

POP GOD, LOVE MASTER, NEW WORLD ENERGY.

THE PRIMROSE PATH, GIRLISH PROFANITY.

2009-07-10T23:00:00.000-07:00

I'm female Morrissey. I like it. Straight 80's and pure, snow white. A wandering bard, an oven-baked poet. I must be lonely, yeah? Lonely like the virgin before the bleeding messiah. Lonely like an empty gallery, paintings all staring out into nothing. They all seem to frown with their eyes. No sex, no real friction or tension. How could she? I see them all around me. I violently cough up their bad manners, and vomit in the river, and another fox punches through the brush. The fox is The World is Neptune is Pisces, and Venus is exalted in Pisces, or so I hear. And, just as suddenly, he's gone. Unlikely downtown fox. Black dogs, train tracks, city streets and litter. I had no idea, so. What'll they do to me? Where are they taking me? Why aren't they feeding me? You've got us girls all wrong, I said to them. Venus hasn't failed me. How could she? How could she? I'd rather believe that it's shyness. Believe I'm too good to be true. So good that I'm Venus incarnate. Sleeping beauty. Fairy tale phantom. Immortal youth. Witch in the water. Salt Lake City. The portrait of the artist as a young brick. Anticlimactic freeze frame. The podium awaiting the winner. Stuck ticking at 2. As a scarecrow. As the tin man. Red-headed Dorothy. Blood-red rubies. The dog in the basket. All staying on track, singing, marching arm-in-arm. Poppies. I'm poppies. I'm sleep setting in. I'm in dreams. The Motherland, the silver mine, the subconscious. I'm home alone. So, come scare me. This will be easy. Boogeyman boyfriend. Trick or treat me. Halloween me. Haunt me. Boo me. I'll be your black cat skeleton. Voodoo initiation. Potent magic. Beginner's luck. Female Morrissey, soft-hearted celibacy, political candidacy, bittersweet intensity fees, get down on your idiot knees, and ... well, never mind.

FINE JOURNALISM IS WHAT?

2009-07-10T08:06:00.000-07:00

GROUP OF FEARLESS (SHAMELESS) MISSISSIPPIANS DIG OWN GRAVES?
by K. Seagraves

They call themselves the "Cemetery Dead". This stalwart collective of borderline-suicidal U.S. citizens claim allegiance to what they recognize as, "the warm, dark hands of eternal silence and the promise of no tomorrow". Since the moment of their conception, each of these individuals has harbored a private, intense wish to reclaim a lifeless state of non-being. Terri Cory-Phiffer (far left), leader of this revolutionary movement, states the following, "We met by pure coincidence! As if by divine intervention ... The Internet is truly miraculous. Like a waiting room full of God's angels." Cory-Phiffer, age 67, has done absolutely nothing with his life since his junior high school Valentine's Day dance. "I just don't want to talk to anyone anymore! I really would rather be dead," he exclaims, nervously toying with a used cotton swab. Through the Internet, Cory-Phiffer established a network of deeply unfilled, self-loathing companions, who later became his comrades, obsessively extending themselves to death's embrace. "I was only online for 15 minutes," Cory-Phiffer explains, "I don't know why these retards follow me around. It worries me. I don't know how they got my phone number ..." As if on cue, the phone rings. Cory-Phiffer lets his head drop like an anvil into his scaly, sickly hands. One such "retard" and avid supporter of Terri Cory-Phiffer's deathwish is Gloria Derby. "I used to go shopping, you know? Like, at Sam's Club. My husband and I weren't getting along so well, and I couldn't think of a more fitting way to express myself - my unhappiness. I'd always end up buying too much. And then, on AOL, I met Terri ..." Derby, 47, stares blankly through the slats in her blinds, her pale, desperate face twitching once or twice every few minutes. Derby is unique. Unlike other members of the Cemetery Dead group, Derby's resolve seems shaky. "I've fallen in love with Terri. I'd do anything for him. After I left my now ex-husband, I made a vow to never again experience a thought of my own. I am prepared to die in my grave beside Terri." Upon inquiry, Cory-Phiffer had the following to say about Derby's sad display of human emotion. "I hate that bitch," he spat, before leaving the room. As I sat, dumbfounded, in Cory-Phiffer's filthy studio apartment, not yet grasping that my interviewee had fled from further question, I began to wonder, "What the hell am I doing here?" After an hour or so spent crying, I forced myself from the moldy, semi-damp recliner I had been awkwardly perched upon for what seemed like days, and ambled towards the bathroom, where Cory-Phiffer had been holed up for hours. In an attempt to complete what would be my last journalistic assignment, I shouted the most straightforward question I could fathom through the bathroom door. "So then, Mr. Cory-Phiffer, do you believe in God?" I received no reply for half an hour. Finally, I let out a terrible sigh as my forehead sunk into the wall. Terri Cory-Phiffer, from beyond the bathroom door, gurgled and sputtered in a fit of wet coughs and moans. I heard the toilet flush as I rushed from the dark apartment. The Cemetery Dead are certainly revolutionaries. Having gathered absolutely nothing of their grim initiative, and after I hand in this darkly vacant bit of journalistic nothingness, I, Kelly Brooke Seagraves, plan to promptly quit my job and seek the path to enlightenment. I only hope that you, reader, never become as abysmally fucked as these creeps. Bless us all.

THE TRIAL OF PSYCHE, PART I.

2009-07-08T09:45:00.000-07:00

FREAK SHOWS AND SWEET HEARTS.

2009-07-06T14:47:00.000-07:00

And I was happy to see his face lift lightly and look soft the next day.

And a new minute brought back the good stuff.

And I will feel good.

And it could all be good.

So pay for the pump. Pay for a pear. Pay for red hair. Pay for teacher, pay for teacher, pay for teacher, and pray in bed. Shit, it's hot outside. I'm sweating underneath my bangs, and I don't imagine the sweat will stop. Not this side of September. I can't begin to imagine how much I must sweat in my sleep. So you mentioned the difference between Lovers and Friends, and I feel as if I've been caught red-handed committing a crime. My guts pour through my teeth through my brain. Guilty as charged. I stammer slowly as I speak to reconcile the differences between the two fictions. So there are Lovers and there are Friends. And there are those who are both Friends and Lovers. The Lucky Ones. And then there's the cat. And somehow it's always about the cat, or the cat's hair, or how I should have emptied the ash tray last night because the cat might have been enticed to eat the spent butts and ashes. But the point is that she's small and makes small messes. The point is that she's been fed and isn't hungry. The point is that she loves us and we can't let her down. I've looked at the love stirring in the narrow slats of her eyes. I don't know about you, but I sure as Hell won't let her down.

The words I used over and over again that night: By the wayside. Confused. Frustrated. Don't care. Trying to be honest. Hidden from me. Never tell me. Trust you. Feeling embarrassed. Independence. Going for a walk.

I retired these the second you rushed out the door.

Even though you came back, this is their resting place.

And I hope The Blonde Boy's not counting, 1-2-3. He's so graceful. He's so quiet. He's not boring. He might still find it cute. The hair over my shoulders and down my back, I mean. Maybe even the tangles. If I'm lucky. I think I'm lucky. And my childlike sense of humor. All the stuff I've got to work with, trying to figure out how to do this, trying to get all the hard work out of the way early.

So, I liked the irrigation ditch. The dried up dead worm. That brick that was thrown back into the garden. The ants on the picnic table. Picking at bug bites. Picking up all the paper that was thrown across the golf course. Not picking favorites. Speaking in metaphors. Saying anything, nowhere near everything. Feeling close to someone. How it's new. How it's unfamiliar. How it's challenging. How it's scary. Rather, how it can be scary. You in your dress clothes. Dressed like an elementary school art teacher. Looking like silhouetted Eros. If I imagine you as my teacher, and myself as a child in school, I know my classmates would tease me. They'd all know I think you're cute. No one teases me anymore, and I'm not a little kid, and you're still unemployed, but I think you're cute anyway. Trying to flatter you. Flirt with you. Clumsily. Daydreaming. Lightheaded, wanting a snow cone. I'll get your snow cone. Hunger, wine, and preferences. Harold. Maude. Diving boards and being stoned. And then there's the drinks we drank. Sweet tea, water, beer, lemonade. My mother, my father, their house, my car. I guess I'll just have water. Whatever's free. None of us have any money. A little goes a long way. $25.00 will get you home. So, Junior Candy Whatever, please. Off the dollar menu. And drawings spilt everywhere, lost art and accidents. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 accidents. So many accidents, and when I finally gave in to the anxious force outside of me, another accident. My poor decisions. But maybe I did need a few minutes to myself. You were right all along. I was just ... What I meant to say was ... I don't know why I ... Um ... Well, I guess these things just happen. I care about you. Of course I care. Now more than ever, and always.

I liked all of it, as usual.

And I should have been listening to you. I wasn't listening. Sometimes I need to be reminded. So, thanks for the reminder. And thanks for turning over and laying your shoulder on me. It felt like a feather mountain. It was like a unicorn in a dream. You must have magic skin. I know you care.

It's like that song. How does it go? ~~Fox in the snow.~~ Girl in the snow. Tell someone all the truth before it kills you. I'm picking on Him. The Coyote. The Blonde Boy. I've forgotten how to be calm all of a sudden. Perhaps a cup of apple sauce to soothe the nerves, and silence the mean hearts of man, of woman, of the brutal human, and finally Fox will curl to sleep. Laughing at sleepy visions, hearing you draw. Scratch-scratch, pen on paper, and the music stops playing, and the light goes out. And in her dreams, she solved a difficult equation and left her desk empty and clean, no evidence of struggle, and she woke up early to find that lovely campfire still and dim, but warm, with little things still burning and bright. Love scout resurrected with other scouts. A pinky swear promise seals the deal. Between them both. That slender, beautiful Coyote. And small, skittish Fox. Two mysterious animals. Outside of the cage, looking in, fearful. Too timid to really growl. No bites, no bruises. Just sensitive spots where the skin is soft and vulnerable. Those spots we go at only when we're rabid, imagining we're backed into a corner. But we're both pretty and free. No walls, no corners. I don't do nets / You don't do traps.

I like your independence. I like you. Teach me, tiger. I learn both fast and slow.

I'm foolish, I'm the Fool, and I don't have a fool-proof plan. I'm a ... dumbhead? So, as I trifle around the cliff ledge, I consider the convenience of amphetamines. They really eat up a man's appetite, I've noticed. But no one who sees me sees a man, so perhaps it's the smell of my own blood that makes my mouth water. I care so much about virgin blood. Protection against all things that corrupt the blood. The ego phallus I sense but do not see as I cover my eyes and ears and hum it all away. Thank heavens I met you. In the morning, your nose and my nose still shimmered with summer sweat and grease, and we both put on open smiles and laughed some, and I hope we're both learning, and I hope we're both forgiven. And now it's time to swear off vampires. The one that's me, and in me, and all over me. Vanquish that sick devil and live on in leather, in a black bandana, on a motorcycle. A hard, warm-blooded rebel. I like you, I like you. Meet me at the candy store?

LESSONS OF THE TAROT.

2009-06-27T23:38:00.000-07:00

My body at rest, little wasps and sweat bees and ants crawling near my crevices. I was asleep. All I can remember is sleep. And something at my left side was un-missing. And all the animals could talk, and they seemed to say, "Excuse me. Where's the kid? Will or won't it be beautiful?" The little brown spots on that marble wall / I have yet to count them all. I will count them all. I turned over then, and crossed my legs, tight. I fell asleep. The Lion / The Post-Idiot / My Unrecognized Reversed Position.

I WILL LET MYSELF REMEMBER.

2009-06-14T01:27:00.000-07:00

My lucky card. My limousine. So, what is the word? I've learned that the word can be no more specific than a name. One deceitfully simple name. Yet all the gods in the world have nothing on this name. My lucky card. My limousine. I vacation in Heaven. And I take myself there in a car. A living angel sleeps on my furniture, and his body flinches in response to dreams. I saw it with my own two eyes. Like I see the sun and moon. Horus spoke softly.

Whatever tacked-on mouth you had. Forget it. There will be no more storming. We walked through the school. We walked through the cemetery. We've already witnessed life and death. I can no longer fear either condition.

NORFOLK, VIRGINIA: PART II.

2009-06-08T21:56:00.000-07:00

translation: eat your devil food.

new shoe for a new walk.

post-pizza pre-party.

NORFOLK, VIRGINIA: PART I.

2009-06-07T20:52:00.000-07:00

Norfolk, Virginia / at the hotel:

We're in room 720 now, on the second floor. They had us in 6-something-something (it added up to 7, numerologically - I do remember that much), on the third floor, but we requested a change due to a noisy toilet. It moaned like a wounded cow every time we flushed our piss down the drain, and no one thought it was funny but me. While Dad was downstairs negotiating our case with the shy, goggle-eyed hotel concierge, no doubt bitching in his usual sour, holier-than-thou tone - a tone he has developed over many years of playing the victim - I watched two cats sunbathe in the backyard of someone's beachfront bungalow. So we're in room 720 now, which adds up to 9, numerologically. I'll have to look up the number "9" in my book of mystical and occult knowledge. As well as the number "2". Seeing as we're on the second floor now. If I crane my neck, I can still watch the two sunbathing cats from the balcony. I also caught sight of a third, stalking casually through the tall, brown grass growing over the dunes. I'm looking at cats. Should I be watching the ocean? ...

Eh. Maybe later.

We're very close to the hotel patio and pool. As if the hungry, insistent squawking of seagulls wasn't enough of an auditory assault, I can also hear screaming, ecstatic children and babies, wailing from the shallow end of the pool at their lethargic, disillusioned parents who somehow seem weighted to their deck chairs. I can hear these babies as clearly as if a stork were holding them, in a soft, terrifying bundle, up to my face.

What brilliant acoustics!

I'm anxiously awaiting the arrival of my older brother, the ex-artist, and his overbearing girlfriend. You know, I've noticed she has an odd twitch in her face ...

/ / / / / / / / / / / /

We're still waiting. It's only been a few minutes. I moved my hair around in the mirror and admired my shirt. It's green. There's a little flag. It says, "JAMAICA". I feel entitled to wear it. After all, I have read two books on post-colonial island nations. Michelle Cliff. Frantz Fanon. Yes, I feel entitled and aware, and am proud to support the cause of black national identity. Poverty. The lower-classes. Sinking in the dungle. I am suddenly and unexpectedly overwhelmed with hunger and a desire to be intoxicated.

I still haven't looked up the numerological meaning of "9" and "2". I'll do that to pass the time. Oh, but wait! Was that the door? ...

/ / / / / / / / / / / /

To compliment the daydreams I've been enjoying all week, we eat at a Mexican restaurant. El Azteca. A large painting of Quetzalcoatl glows from the wall directly in front of me, an altarpiece, flanked by several trophy deer heads. Mounted. Deer. Heads. Trophies! Of ... Oh, shit, I'm drawing a blank. The sign at the door said, "WELCOME HOME AMIGOS". Indeed I do feel "at home" here! My friends! All of us here under Quetzalcoatl and his legions of decapitated deer. Oh, and the Tecate helps.

/ / / / / / / / / / / /

Look at me. Sitting here on my brother's front porch, calling all over the goddamn place. All across the United States of America. Home of the free. Land of opportunity. Or, wait, isn't it "land of the free" / "home of the brave" ...? Okay, somebody, some friend, talk to me. The porch is a fucking jail cell, and no body appreciates my humor. My whimsy. Ring, ring, ring, ring. FUCK. "Hey-y-y, this is Brannan, uhhh, I ca--". Fuckin' shit, Brannan. He probably thinks I'm going insane. He probably thinks I'm really fucking depressed. Shit, I bet he's gonna get maaad ... Oh, shit, now I'm a little worried. NOTE TO SELF: THINK TWICE BEFORE LEAVING VOICE MESSAGES / YOU SUCK AT IT. Oh gosh. Gee whiz, gosh. Darn. I. Am. Tired. I want to smoke some weed. I want to drink some NyQuil. I can't sleep. I watched "Independence Day" on fucking mute last night rather than sleep. I hate that goddamn movie. But, well ... I guess it is kind of funny in that sad, unintentionally retarded kind of way ... Okay. Shit. I HAVE GOT TO TALK TO SOMEONE. Who's next? Taylor! Ring ring ring rang rung. "You have reached the voice mail box of --". Shit. Okay, well, that was to be expected. No harm, no foul. I'm just trying like I'm supposed to try. Reachin' out. Reachin' out. Reachin' UP. Um. Um. OH, YES! Fuckin' SCORE! Andy's calling! ... And before our conversation reaches the punchline, my fucking phone fucking goes dead. All the world seems to go dead. I need to go to the store. I need to drive around. My cough is coming back. Shit. And Dad won't let me near the steering wheel of the rental car. Even though he's drunk now. He and his son are watching sports. Of course he's drunk! If I were a dad, I'd be drunk too! Drunk, drunk, drunk. And mom's drunk too, because she has nothing better to do. And I'm on the fucking porch with a pack of Pall Mall Ultra Lights, a dead cell phone, and this sad little journal.

I guess I'll stare at the moon. Yeah. I'll stare at this here moon ... and just ... fall into a trance ... Oh, this is getting too serious. Magic can be too serious sometimes. And scary. I'm scared!

What force is it that makes me miss humor to such an extent that I actually become frantic? Does it really get so hard? I don't know, man. I really don't know. Sometimes I feel like no one's laughing but me, so I stop laughing.

I don't want to stop laughing.

I want to be a comedian. I want to be a comedian. I want to be a comedian.
I want to be a comedian. I want to be a comedian. I want to be a comedian.

Not a sad clown! Not a Victorian vampire! Not a caged bird singin'! Not laughin' alone!

Fuck poetry. Starting right this instant, I'm writing nothing but jokes!

I am a comedian. I am a comedian. I am a comedian.
I am a comedian. I am a comedian. I am a comedian.

On a porch.

GLAMOROUS NOTHINGS.

2009-06-05T00:00:00.000-07:00

Get me the fuck out of here. I'd go anywhere. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere boring and still. Someplace where I have nothing to do.

I see nothing but dirty city blocks. Walls of noise. Screaming. Hair styles. Nice jackets. Plastic cups. His apartment. Her apartment. My apartment. Apartments fucking everywhere. Why the fuck are there so many apartments, and why the fuck do I always have to be inside of one? Police cars / flashing blue lights and sirens. Mean men. Uniforms. Law. Unforgiving Law. It's like a hellish curse. Filthy streets. Filthy buildings. Filthy people accusing other filthy people of being filthy. Dog eat dog. Cannibalism. Is anyone happy? Are any of us talking? Do I know any of you? Is there anyone out there? Hello?

I hear a faint echo. I might as well be alone.

That old woman in the parking lot wasn't precious. No. Her shoes were endearing. Sure. But her eyes were crossed and glazed over. She couldn't walk right. Tiny, uneven steps. I doubt she could even really see us standing there by the car. We were nothing to her - two blurry, faceless moving forms. She was a God-fearing, sickly old woman. She shuffled over looking like she didn't know anything. She looked like she'd just been released from the hospital. The sad slip of paper she stuffed into my hand made me wish I was never born. I was not charmed, no. I was worried. I was so worried about her. I wanted to cry in her arms. I felt physically ill just looking at her. Exhausted. I wanted to fall asleep. I wanted to teach her to fall asleep. She'd be better off asleep.

The place I go in my imagination, to escape everything, is someplace far away. I'm not sure if this place really exists. I've been going there for years. At least since I was 4 or 5. But I'm not sure if it's real, or if it will ever be real. I don't know where the daydream came from, or why I find it comforting. I've never lived outside of the suburbs of a city. My grandparents did, though. And I guess it came from visiting them when I was really young. Riding in the back seat of the car at night, for hours. Feeling alone in every way, even in the company of family. Observing the tiny lights of distant houses. Havens of light. Like an oasis. Miles of darkness between them. I was afraid of the night. I'd imagine the people inside these tiny houses. I wondered if they were anything like me. Maybe they were me. I wanted to be with them. Whoever they were.

I especially liked it around Christmas time. Their pathetic way of stringing lights. All red? That's the best you could do? No green? No white? What about the other Christmas colors? Your pathetic Christmas lights. If Santa Claus was a cruel man, he'd pass over this house. He wouldn't even see it. The lights are an embarrassment to all of Christmas. And is that your tree I see, through the window there? It's so small. Those tiny, blinking, colored lights. Too few of them. The tree's not full enough. The lights look silly. I bet the ornaments are old. I want that sad Christmas. It's genius. You must live in fear of Christmas angels. The manger and the baby Jesus must be close. The wise men seek the light of your house like a star. You sad, strong people in your tiny, distant house. It's like a beacon. You shape my life and dreams. You try so hard. God, I love you. I wish I could be you.

In my imagination, my safe haven is in one of these houses. It's a white house in the middle of nowhere. The house is set far from the road, but I can and often do watch the headlights of cars pass at night. Sometimes I imagine the house having a second story. Sometimes I don't. Sometimes I just imagine my room and nothing else - the room I would have inside of this house, to sleep in, and lay in. I would write in this room. I'd have an old, wooden desk and a chair. In front of a window. I would keep the window open all day. Sometimes all night. I would have a bed, although I don't like sleeping in beds. I would have a record player, although I've never owned any records. I would be afraid of the sounds I hear outside at night, but I would enjoy this fear. I'd lay in bed forever every morning. Light pours in like God. I've imagined the kitchen. The table is small and round, four old chairs. I'd sit here when the bedroom seemed too confining. The square window above the kitchen sink looks out into nothing - a dark field. The refrigerator is covered in magnets. Alphabet letters, souvenirs from other people's vacations, souvenirs from my vacations. I would enjoy arranging and re-arranging these magnets. There's a tree in the yard, near a window. No fence in sight. Fields. Woods far beyond, like a dark wall. In the winter, the bare trees would inspire me and make me feel lonesome and nostalgic for things I've never known or seen. I would write about them. Sometimes it snows. Everything feels ancient. Once, in the hills there, I discovered the gray bones of a pterodactyl, curled under a rocky ledge. I didn't tell anyone. It was my secret. My secret, gray fossil. There are several large hills nearby, but the walk is a few miles. I'd walk into the hills sometimes. I don't know what I'd do in this place, or how I came about living here. Inherited, maybe? I don't know what I'd do for work. I just imagine myself digging shallow holes in the yard and wandering around aimlessly. Maybe I'd be a writer, or some kind of artist. Maybe I'd have money sent to me from publication companies. Or maybe I'd have inherited some money, too, from someone. I don't know who.

Anyway, it's beautiful. And Christmas time would be gorgeous and haunting. Red, green, and white everything. Glass ornaments. Candy canes from three years ago. Hand-made wooden reindeer on the mantle above the fireplace that no one ever lights. A rug. A tree. Presents poorly wrapped in cheap wrapping paper. Red, green, white. Pathetic colored lights. Nativity scenes everywhere - some missing the camel, some missing Joseph. Mary and her tiny, precious baby Jesus. I love them both. I love their stupid little hutch of a home. Christmas eve would have me insane with excitement. Christmas day would reek havoc on my soul. Somehow, everything would just look different on this day, like it used to when I was a stupid little kid. It would be my favorite day of the year, like it used to be. Red, green, white.

I want to go to this place. I wish it were a real, physical place. Somewhere I could point to on a map. Because I want to be there now. I really want to get away sometimes, and be alone. Really alone. Someplace private and mine. If the world were a perfect place, I'd ask for a person like you (and you know who "you" is) to come with me to this place. But it isn't real. And I can't ask.

SHAMANIC VISION, #1.

2009-06-03T01:24:00.000-07:00

And there it was, I thought. The word. I took the oil bar firmly in my hand and wrote it over my flat stomach. "LOVE".

I stared up through the slats, and the sun fell in bands upon the word. I decided to nap until nightfall. I didn't dream.

The evening sung with more insects. The shaman's presence woke me. He hadn't said a word. He made a quick gesture with his left hand that I understood to mean, "Follow me." We walked, in-step with one another, toward the communal house, and I noticed the village lay silent. I paused at the doorway and lifted one corner of my tunic. "LOVE". As if to show the stars. The shaman nudged my shoulder, gently cupping a bowl of dark liquid with both hands. I let my tunic fall back into place, and took the bowl from his hand. His nod was simple and certain. "Drink," he seemed to say. I looked into his steady eyes, the bowl pressed against my lips. And swallowed. The drink was bitter, but the taste was not unbearable. I gently stretched, spread eagle, across the bamboo mat he'd laid across the floor. The process had begun.

Pulsating color, a hum. I felt the masculine and feminine harmonize. A hole tore through the roof, through which a thin needle poked around for me. To thread me. I feared it would gauge through me, and for a while, I evaded the tip. But suddenly, I could not move. I could not speak, and could not move. Two sturdy, green limbs held me in place, cradling me, as a thin, luminescent string was picked from my chest and threaded through the needle above me. Out through the hole in the roof it drew me. My vision was pulled from my body as this string, and I was someplace beyond the outer limits of the known universe. Lights and lights and lights flew past as I was pulled. Into a sheath, an unperceived layer that moved rhythmically, in subtle waves, and encased all of everything I knew, or thought I knew. My skin, against this sheath, tingled, and I was threaded through.

I was suddenly in a field, surrounded by shoots of tall, brown grass that stood like men. My vision was not fixed. Instead, the scene and the field revolved like a spinning panorama - one that I was witnessing from a third-point perspective. All was deathly quiet and still until, from a distance, a giant, burning hawk lifted and soared from over a lone, black mountain, sagging and swooping as he turned and flew towards the place I stood. As he approached, he opened his great mouth, not to scream but to release a long, deep human sigh that was both the softest and most bone-chilling sound I'd ever heard. As he drew closer, he sunk sharply towards the ground, as if to land, and time seemed to slow. His motion was suspended. As I watched him fall, my hands were pulled upwards, involuntarily, as if they were being lifted by two invisible hoops. Time was so slow now that the hawk, gliding only a few feet above the ground, seemed to barely move at all. And my feet, too, were laid in the same invisible hoops and lifted from the ground. And I realized I was floating. I could fly. And the burning hawk crash landed slowly, hitting the ground with an eerie, gasping moan - almost like a weak, scared human child. Debris kicked up around his huge, broken form. Red and gold dust rose and slowly fell in his wake, sweeping up fragments of dried and yellow bone, rusted metal, and bands of moving silver, what I sensed was the rapid ticking of streams of digital data. These things fell past me as I floated forward, towards the body of the hawk. I tried to guide my legs to the ground, but they seemed caught in these invisible hoops. I could only go forward or stop to hover. I felt ashamed. The giant hawk was dead, and I could not touch his body. My arms and legs were hooked against the air that held me up. I hesitated above him. His lifeless body was long. The rotation of the field around me allowed me to look upon him from all angles. He had been so beautiful. He must have been 40 feet long. His wings were splayed out, twice the width. He did not move, but every one of his great, long feathers burned beneath me. I watched them burn and change colors: from red to gold to black to yellow, and back again. At that moment, as I lingered there, I let my head fall over him. My long, red hair was a curtain around my heavy face, which felt as hard and dark and cold as obsidian. And I cried. I felt hot tears press around the stone of my eyes, pushing over my cold ocular cavities which did not and could not move, to pour over my hard, black face and spill from underneath the red curtain of my hair. The tears came out like water bursting from a fountain, and drenched the burning body of the dying bird beneath me. The fire of his feathers, that had seemed so alive, were extinguished by these wild, hot, uncontrollable tears, and a cold, gray gust, tight and concentrated, erupted from his back - like a ghost. It rushed through me, breaking away the stone of my face and thrusting back my head. My hair flew behind me, whipping around wildly in the chilling ghost wind. And I noticed, suddenly, that I was nude. My hair had turned to fire. I was a levitating torch. I felt my abdomen burn. The burning split off and spread in two directions. Down my body: it went inside me, intimately, and moved down my legs, to my feet, left to burn slowly at the tips of all ten toes. Up my body: it swirled at my breasts, and up my arms which seemed to stiffen and become very solid and strong. It churned at my chest, ignited my heart, and burned twice as hard up my neck and into my face. My eyes, which had been closed throughout this process, burst open with such intense power and authority that the air and earth shook. It was a tectonic force. My eyes had changed. My pupils were huge, dark, and bottomless. I felt something stirring there - I heard euphoric voices calling there. My irises were an intense, hard gold. Physical gold. My irises had become solid, strong, circular gold gateways that led into the howling, lively world that moved the mysterious dark depths of my gaping, shameless pupils. The gold seemed to extend almost to the edges of my eye. The white was just barely visible at the points, at both edges, in both eyes. I closed them heavy and fast, and held them shut hard, as the burning ignited in my lashes, which turned stiff and gold, like ornaments. Ghost diamonds spun, for a moment, at the tip of each gold lashes, but disappeared into the dark of my eyes as they shot open. I heard a high-pitched bell ring. Ghost diamonds filled the dark holes of my eyes and glittered and rung. My face still burned. Burning lines of concentrated energy moved freely about my face, marking my skin with rich, brown patterning. Pattern around my eyes. Pattern across the bridge of my nose. Pattern across my soft cheeks, and up my jaw. Pattern under my mouth. Pattern on my chin. The burning crept into my mouth and rushed down my throat. I hissed gold steam. My tongue had taken a darker tint. My eyes remained fixed, intense, focussed, burning. The sensation shot sharply upward and hit hard against the roof of my skull. My brain, I felt. It swam in fire, and I could feel it being penetrated from every angle - the neurons all caught flame, and everything burnt. I could remember everything, anything. And another sharp upward thrust of burning - again it hit up against the roof of my skull, but this time broke through the bone, like burning spears forced out in all directions. My hair that already burnt burst into flames a second time, and burnt stronger than ever. The flames fell and cascaded down around my eyes, my face, and over my back. And, suddenly, I was no longer on fire. I was burning, but not on fire. I was steady and alive. And, as I floated there in my new form, I still remembered the hawk. I looked down at him, and watched as all the color drained from him, and suddenly, from tail to beak, he turned gray and grainy, like ash. The gray mound retained the shape of a hawk. Again, I tried to guide my legs towards the ground. I was more forceful this time - more insistent. I fought against the invisible hoops that held me and, with a shrill scream - like that of a hawk - I broke them. And to my surprise, I was still in the air. My limbs were free, I was light, and I could fly. I flew around the ashy form of the hawk, halting at his side, and stepped lightly to the ground. I stood there, in the field, amongst the shoots of grass that looked like men, and suddenly the spinning panorama fixed in one place and panned in. And, suddenly, I could finally see through my own eyes. My new, deep, gold-rimmed eyes. And I could see through the air. Another tectonic shock rumbled from within me and I was in another place - alive again.

RECIRCULATE THESE STORIES.

2009-06-01T11:58:00.000-07:00

All humans originate from East Africa.

LOOK WHO'S TALKING.

2009-05-26T15:13:00.001-07:00

PHOTO REFERENCE / MUG SHOT / WHO YOU'RE MESSING WITH

ROUND DIRGE FOR A DARK EGG, PART I.

2009-05-25T00:45:00.000-07:00

Drama body, dead heart of a dead hawk : however you happen to fall, I am happy in all ways happy. The moon is a plate for you / You drool. Over small servings of slices of wild bird, bludgeoned to death with a club, to boil in blood broth and salt, not me. What a splayed out wet mess of a meal, not warm, but you drool. Hot gold sun wheel in the round, I see, hang hang-on and hanged for what crime, and I will not be you. No crow in you. No caw, no me. And all the word I need is no, and for you to yell it loud, so yell it if you must and do it now. So scare me now with your no. Say no crow, no you. Oh, but I won't be gone. I have no place to go to be gone, but I do have someplace far, and that place I can be, so go on, go: yell your no. If I hear it now, with fire and mine, I can run and may. And if I ran, that voice won't too, so I may choose to run now, soon. The small touch of the word, that's all it will be, to sink you. And that snake sinks too, it follows you, and I won't dive to sink me and reach it, to suck my teeth on it, or make it tender and mine. The hard, bronze scales lay flat against it, so it should sink, and maybe so should you. You and it should die like I die, for you to dig a hole for me. And lay me in it with no gray sound like snow, no dead hawk heart or crow, lay me down. Atop the mound of me, a stone, a name. It says, mind me please / It will say, trip here for me to see, or plan to stay here on me. You had to choose / I plan to die / You chose wrong / And I died by my plan to die, so lay me in a hole you’ll dig, one dug from you for me. But what is this dark egg on me? Take it please, it hatched all wrong, all wrong - all wrong, and I asked it to go alone. But it won't, so God, get it please. I can't watch it here on me. The more I watch, the less there is of me, so pick it up and go, get off of me. No she-star bore me from her, like this egg was not borne from me, for I was too sick a child, I was such a bad child. No one needed my spell to start, and no one needed my hand, left or right: not one, neither. But the one gem I had and have, the heart, is gold, oh, I feel it and it’s gold. It can, it will, it must, it has, it did, with all the gold pride of it and shine of it, and it isn't cold. I asked to take the pill, the round of it, to grow the gold of my heart in me, and the old man, the wise cold man, said it might heal me, so it may and still might grow gold. Rapid around the flesh of it / We all will die for a rock above our heart that's dead. I will pray for mud and you, and you will cry for you, and it all will have been my wish for mud. And, oh: I have a pill for you too, you, in the name of an axe, to cut it all off. I know you must not want it now. And say, will you ever want it now? Oh, no, not ever and never, not ever now, no never. So put it off, say no crow. No hollow me in you, your dead heart of hawk / of moon / of mound / my kiss / no crow. And sleep your sleep, you - you will not ever have it when you're dead.

THE BIRTH OF VENUS.

2009-05-18T22:44:00.000-07:00

Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out. Venus wants to lay you out.

(f l a t)

STRIKE.

2009-05-16T01:52:00.000-07:00

I take it back.

"Coyote brings us many gifts, many of which are greatly unappreciated in modern day society. Coyote is our right to be individuals while learning how to cooperate and work with others. Coyote is our ability to adapt, to hide when needed, to act the fool to discourage others from invading our space or doing us actual harm. Coyote is the ability to speak the truth about a given situation, to tell it like it is and the devil take the hindermost. Coyote is our ability to play, to take risks, to not conform so just maybe we might find a better way of going about things that will be of greater benefit to all. Coyote brings us the gift of laughter which has been shown to heal dis-eases. Laughter is powerful medicine and one that all of us would do well to take more and larger doses of! Coyote is the part of us that knows what it feels like to be at the bottom and how to climb back up again with patience and persistence. Coyote can teach us how to live in a world that really has gone completely batty, being run by conservative "sane" individuals who can no longer see the need to work for a greater good. Coyote can teach us how to walk into our full potential as unbounded human beings if we will but listen for its call and respond. Our greatest teacher is waiting! It is said that if all the other creatures of the world were to die off, one would remain. Coyote. Somehow Coyote would find a way to survive and who knows, perhaps all the creatures would be brought back to life again because Coyote one day decided to close his eyes and envision what could be."

AN EYE AND YOU.

2009-05-08T02:13:00.000-07:00

The Devil won't write. And he keeps me up at night to do his bidding. He says to write slander, lies and lies, all of everything that I want but do not need (to say). Because what could be more patriotic? Evening the score. An eye for an eye. Buff away the older messages - they are all static symbols now anyway, and hieroglyphics - replace them with newer marks, more relevant marks - to refresh and upgrade whatever fairy tale or fiction mid-sentence.

Where do I put it all? And where are the things I'm writing? Certainly not here. Ursa Major was nothing: a cluster of silent suns, before it was a bear. And bears don't walk in stars, and never will. A = A. = = =. A symbol is a symbol is a symbol, and where do I put it? Here. Over there. Inside. On my body. On a face, a color, a time of day. Symbols adhere, as if they too observe the laws of science. Gravity. Magnetism. Your face, the symbol. A heart, the symbol. My name, the symbol.

What is a symbol, and why am I such an avid collector of symbolic meaning? If I understood this, I might understand every idea. Love, hate. Loss, gain. Death, or Earth. Symbols displace and multiply and even displacement itself becomes a symbol. I almost want to try and gather up all of my symbols, organize them in neat bundles, observe them in their cages, behaving like bored, lonely animals, and close my eyes or turn my back to finally depart from them, recalling only the wildness of words, of images.

But I think, God, how Victorian! Am I not a wild word too? A wild image? My symbols are mine, and they are me. And the symbolic meaning of the other, the "you", being as thoroughly feral as that idea tends to be: What does it offer me and mine? More symbols. Oh, what a mess! I couldn't even justify organizing my own symbols. The last thing I need is more, especially not if I should have to keep them all inside.

So then, there. Let's not keep them inside. Let's not keep them any one place, and especially not in ourselves, selfishly. We've run a tight circle. So how about an eye for an eye?

Here is my eye.

My eye is green, shaped like an almond, like a bay leaf which is also green. With my eye, I look and see and sometimes refuse to look. Sometimes I think my eye gets wet and starry when I really wish to use it as a tool, to express: the eye, the medium. Ink and my eye. My eye is convex, like the cockpit of an airliner. My body, or the fuselage, with all its arms and bags of blood and pulp, stores cargo, seats passengers - it drinks and breathes and it sees too, but it does not see far from the inside of itself. It evades and protects, sneaking shy glances across the aisle. The eye looks out and, as itself, can't look in. But somewhere the pilot steers. My eye is a black hole, and the black lens of my eye is a genius opening. God, everyone is fascinated by it - in theory, at least. I cannot see the inside of my own eye. Only with the assistance of shamanistic scholars of the eye can I view my eye's insides, and even the shaman must use a talismanic tool. Even the machine that sees my eye copies my eye. And an eye, by nature, is reciprocal. It copies the machine and opens to look upon and into this thing. All those tiny, moving parts: tissues and nerve. Registering fields of light, fields of dark, color / space / proximity / characteristic. All languages of the body. Sometimes everything burns in my eye, because of the warmth of the passion of the intellect, or the white hot savage fire of the ego as it bleeds. Something boils the eye, and it adopts the manner of the heart or mind, for a moment, before extinguishing the flame with one tear or more. The eye, like the heart, but unlike the mind, tends to its own basic hunger. The eye is such a lively, combustible organ, and from somewhere it learned sympathy. Perhaps from other eyes it watched burn and cry. The eye is a phoenix. It burns and dies and is reborn again a natural eye, and these cycles are learned and relearned each time an eye watches an eye.

So that is, to the extent I care to explain it, the symbol of my eye. So, in order for this trade to be fair, let's have your eye. Explain a chapter of your origin through an eye.

Tomorrow, the ear. Tomorrow, like every day, I will ask to see and hear it.

WHERE, WOLF?

2009-05-01T14:03:00.000-07:00

I'm a fucking wolf. I can turn into a wolf. And, when I'm with you, there's no moon round enough to pull me away. I'll sprawl across your feet and my stillness will protect. Trash everyone else's love. It's all cheap to me. My fickle fang. My riches. My fang. More a fang than any. It proves itself. You may favor it, or no.

CLOUD DAYDREAMS AND AN IMAGE OF A FOX:

2009-04-26T17:02:00.001-07:00

I've just been looking out the window at clouds for a while now, and I've seen so many things. I saw two people driving a chariot. They were being chased by a vicious spectral dog! A plane flew by, small and fast. "Zippidy-doo!" it said before disappearing. "Pardon me!" and he was gone.

Now a dancing troupe goes by in ceremonial garb. They pass by with an eloquence the chariot hadn't possessed. These dancers were light and dainty: the mass of any limber dancer who dances on Earth.

Here comes something tremendous! Maybe a whale, or bigger! (And zip-zap! Here's another plane! Zip-zim!) The giant head of a bear! He's looking right, but drifting left. Suddenly, he decides to pull off his mask backwards and become a man. An old man in a cabby hat! He smokes a pipe in front of a canal, and behind him a gondola passes under an arched bridge. Maybe the Bridge of Sighs! We must have been in Venice!

Another plane flies by after the Venetian man and his meditative scene had passed. The plane, this time center stage, somehow seems to move with more a plan, with more precision.

A few Chimney Swifts chase over a giant spilt egg - frying pan-ready. How ironic ...

Oh, now something sizzles like an omen. A gassy aura ushers in ...

... Well, I wait but nothing comes. Just some debris kicking past, I guess. But it seemed so foreboding at first! Oh well ...

Ah-hah! But a figure lurks behind a distant tree! I knew it! I reposition myself in my chair - I'm on alert. What or who could it be loitering back there?

Oh, only a tropical fish. It's opacity fades towards the tail end. Just a fish. The dark head of one, anyway.

More careless planes. God, I'd hate to be a plane. They're as dumb as ants.

Blue, blue, blue. You forget it's not the ceiling you're staring at.

Oh! There's something right above me! A pair of dissected lungs. Is this some kind of message? I wonder ... about nicotine ... Yes ...

Now the smoke from my cigarette, I know, will waft up there and stir some great image from the clouds already in attendance. As a great, long crocodile swims by, snout and brow just slightly above the water, now I must wait ...

Here comes something! Now, whatever it is, this one MUST be mine! Oh, a young boy in repose, heels kicked up and relaxing. What rest! I liked that one. He scarcely noticed the pest of the plane that buzzed by.

But now finally I've grown bored. I don't want to watch and wait anymore, so I think I'll end in this blue. If I were to mix this exact blue in paint pigments, I'd start with a base of Cerulean blue, add some warm gray, and a dab of cool yellow. But I won't have to, because I have an infinite amount of this color right now.

BREAK.

2009-04-24T12:00:00.000-07:00

I was born on September 23rd, 1987 at 4:44 P.M. Libra is my astrological sun sign. I also have Libra in Mercury, Venus, and the Moon. Aquarius ascendant, according to my natal chart.

On Libra:

Yours is a communicative nature. Inwardly you seek harmony, and you try to be the peacemaker in your dealings with others. You crave companionship, affection, and partnerships and feel incomplete when not involved in some relationship. You desire balance, symmetry, and evenness in your life. You are the diplomat exercising good form and taste.

Although under normal circumstances you possess good judgment, under stress you could become highly subjective and lose sight of values. Generally you avoid decisions and are noncommittal, but occasionally you display the opposite tendencies. When you do attach yourself to a cause, you become an extremist. It is difficult to know what goes on in your mind behind the screen of careful tact and charm.

You restrain yourself from emotional involvement, for you are not willing to take the accompanying risks. However, you often lose control, and in love you yield easily.

You believe that truth is beauty, but you need to know more. You have found that this simple definition of truth is far from sufficient to bring you happiness in life.

On Aquarius Ascendant:

At the time of your birth the zodiacal sign of Aquarius was ascending in the horizon. Its ruler Uranus is located in the eleventh house.

You were born with a natural disposition to be humane, sympathetic, original and refined in your dealings with others. Among your features is the ability to understand human nature in a sympathetic manner. Unfortunately, you do not always act upon your intuitions and may become rationalistic at times when swift and prompt determination is required.

The common Aquarian is good and kindly, but usually led astray by eccentric and bizarre companions.

Your tastes are refined and your discrimination keen. You have a natural inclination toward the esoteric and mystical side of life and you could develop some clairvoyant abilities. Basically you are a lover of freedom; in the realization of this desire you may go to extremes.

Although changeable in appearance, your life is guided by very definite and fixed principles, one of which is a constant demand for personal freedom. In love you are a strange character. You can easily be emotionally attracted to one person and yet unpredictably terminate relationships.

As an inventor you have no rival; your problem is that sometimes you lack the practical ability to implement your creations. Professionally you will be successful in any of the following fields of activity: modern science, electrical work, photography, archaeology, astrology, radio etc.

This is an indication that your existence will be centered around developing friendships and that the most decisive events will evolve through them. You are a fortunate individual: you always seem to win at bingo, sweepstakes, lotteries, etc. Your friendships will be rather unusual and dual-aspected in the sense that a great many of them will benefit you but still present you with considerable difficulty.

If you are at all persuaded by human metrics, you might be interested to know that I've been tested. The diagnosis was ENFP. The Champion? The Advocate? The Visionary?

On ENFP:

Social/Personal Relationships: ENFPs have a great deal of zany charm, which can ingratiate them to the more stodgy types in spite of their unconventionality. They are outgoing, fun, and genuinely like people. As SOs/mates they are warm, affectionate (lots of PDA), and disconcertingly spontaneous. However, attention span in relationships can be short; ENFPs are easily intrigued and distracted by new friends and acquaintances, forgetting about the older ones for long stretches at a time. Less mature ENFPs may need to feel they are the center of attention all the time, to reassure them that everyone thinks they're a wonderful and fascinating person.

ENFPs often have strong, if unconvential, convictions on various issues related to their Cosmic View. They usually try to use their social skills and contacts to persuade people gently of the rightness of these views; this sometimes results in their neglecting their nearest and dearest while flitting around trying to save the world.

But, you know, I really don't know.

2009-04-22T11:29:00.000-07:00

The last time I overslept, I dreamt I was in a vertical cave. I was crawling through narrow caverns that went up and over. There was a bear at the mouth of the cave. She was with her cub. She treated me like her cub. She was soft, her fur was brown, I felt safe and happy.

Today, I overslept. I dreamt back in time - like some sliver of my subconscious is forever trapped in March or January, last summer or the previous winter. I dreamt vertically, instead of horizontally left-to-right. It really makes me wonder ...

I was supposed to wake up at 8AM.

I woke up at 1PM.

5 extra hours.

What do individuals symbolize in dreams? Or the number 5.

019.

2009-04-19T04:38:00.000-07:00

Let's have an objective conversation about abstraction, right? Let's try to quantify that which is unquantifiable, yeah? OH, HOLY: What say you? The wren that nests in the garage flees from me, for I am a solid of greater mass than she. The wren that nests on the column flees from me, for I am less a prophet than she. The cat comes willingly, and he comes to me, for I stroke him gently and croon his name, lovingly and consistently, throughout and over the nine lifespans of his extended kittenhood. It is this cat's right and mine to comfort each other with fur or finger.

Familiar movements, like ritual. Systems, numeric patterns, are ritualistic and quantify quite efficiently. They skillfully maintain their abstract, not to mention their objective, and dwell somewhere midway alongside fallen Icarus, a melted pair of wax wings, and the myth of the gluttonous sea. In that way, the mathematician is a poet is an artist is a historian is an activist, and it all behaves - so sterile and routine. But my weak, unnatural prophetic vision has informed me of a mark to end all marks. A spot, a dot, a little speck of something leftover, the way a crumb is leftover to mix with other crumbs and pile and vanish. Punctuation. A period. Yes, I think I'd like to die the way a period is dead. Not to live again, having taken full responsibility for some sentence - maintaining it, guiding and preserving each word that cascades in its wake. Dumb cygents behind a Swan.

Do not be misled - the period - the punctuation - is parental. It leads. But though it informs and inspires, it should not call you home. In its shadow, you should feel all the more enticed to leave. So, mathematically, if you were to live as that point of divergence, you could perhaps, as our Dictionary would have you believe, "give a measure of the quality of flux emanating from any point of the vector field or the rate of mass, heat, et cetera, from --" ... well, you: The Point. And, oh, imagine how heavy a pause your passage and point could inspire, a hot hush, followed by a forward push. Your end, if it is indeed as potent as it could be, would reclaim its wildness again and again.

It's all the Heaven there is, and you can start off towards it immediately. No application fee. No interview. No standardized testing. No initiation. Free admission. Many specific heavens that multiply asexually by way of bee or bird or breeze, whatever beast. Incidental multiplication / The wheel of fortune. It turns, it turns, it turns. All of physics. It turns too. And everything turns. "Let it turn!" I might insist, with that upward inflection that implies I'm only half-certain my tone reflects a genuine sentiment.

I don't want to pursue simple solutions in order to solve simple problems. Simplicity comes later. The hunt is now. All that is simple will succeed me. I want warm, rich, red blood. The heady, scarlet stink of existence - it smells like wet rust, and radiates with the living heat of speculation and debate. MORE BLOOD! More sacrifice! More dance, more drum! My own blood, sacrifice, dance, and drum, of course. More task, more mark, and if we anoint our moments as they pass, more a promise of endless, labyrinthine afterlives - a forever's worth, for us and them and me.

If I were smarter, I'd be able to think my way to beauty and truth. I feel bound to that ambition, as if it were obligation. But why do I pine so intensely for that which is beautiful and honest? How can I believe I might eventually be sensible enough to approach physically and interface with the golden ratio, using my senses - my fingers, my hands, bare skin and nerves - and really feel it? The Cult of Artemis is dead. Artemis, too, is an end pulling taught a cautionary tale. Diana: the anchor, and her mad deer that still roam today, if only to prove the fallacy of ancient wit.

Prettiness, I have oftentimes noticed, contradicts my tendency to be critical and discerning. The liberalness of beauty - or the fair ghost of beauty, respectively - might benefit from a more staunch discernment, for if it were not educated enough to call a side, it would seem somehow less real. Beauty would be less a cause and more an occupation. I'm not here to live and die my way into conversation, as a chore, or to be martyred for martyrdom's sake. I would prefer to speak now and leave tomorrow's talking for tomorrow's talkers.

But we scholars are lethargic. We must all be dizzy from the countless scores of satellites, humming in circles, weaving all these sickly axes, casting invisible, mesh-like nets that make us tense and uncouth, about the outer limits of our charmed lives. So lethargic, so sick and dizzy. We tend to bore our mentors into submission. The satellites, though: they mentor us. They guide us off / We think they're stars.

But even the most sophisticated satellite won't light your homeward trek. There is no home, or there is hardly a home. Besides, satellites only lead back to more satellites, and so on. It all comes full circle, but the cycle is made of cheap metal and boasts it's clever automation cheerlessly and without passion or intent.

I vaguely recall a time, way back when - before the moon was cast in titanium alloy, iron pyrite, fool's gold - when we used to build step-pyramids to the living sky.

018.

2009-04-18T01:34:00.000-07:00

017.

2009-04-16T01:40:00.001-07:00

To Love and Art,

I almost want to write about what I look like without my clothes on, but I can't, and I won't. I think I can be beautiful. When it's just me and myself in the mirror, I'm all. I am everything I have, and that is me, and it is perfect. Balanced. I'm all I need in my mirror. Friend, enemy, me in the mirror.

Even now, with all this thought, my writing seems shallow and reserved. I know there's so much more. I can sense it. Maybe that's it. The only reason I'll ever have to keep writing. Ah-hah! ... Uh-oh ...

A moment ago, standing in front of the refrigerator with the door hung half-open, idly eyeballing over all the tupperware bowls, expired food, and things I refuse to eat because they're not my "taste", I said aloud, "Look, you're surviving." All of all day, and all of all night, and look, you're still surviving. I came up with a little song about it, and I sang as I settled on diced pineapple.

It all begins with sight, does it not? Sight first, and then voice. And voice is what's really important, isn't it? All this voice, or all that voice. I doubt I'll ever overcome the noise.

Where is it? He? It? They? You? You know what they say about cats ... Those curious little luxuries. But they have such a tempting decadence about them. As do all animals, in some way. I do agree, though, that all dogs are liberals, and in that way, they are curiously less interesting.

Animals are strange. I saw four deer tonight. Two separate incidences. Two pairs of deer. The first pair I saw after I decided to stay out later, to drive farther, to run away. They stood at the side of the road, staring me down as I rounded a corner. They took me by surprise, and for a moment I couldn't decide whether or not to react. No surprise there. Late reactions - I'm so prone. And, in a way, for reasons I'd prefer not to lay out in detail, it was overwhelming. The second pair I saw after I decided to go home, to settle, to cope. The second pair had been split: one had crossed the road, the second had begun to cross, but was interrupted as I closed in on the final half of their silent procession. I can be so callous - I had no invitation to intervene. The deer got spooked and tried to run any way "away", but instead, perhaps by mistake, or likely because she was suddenly terrified and blind, she ran alongside the road, keeping pace with my car for a few short bounds before I passed her, sympathetically.

Oh, imagine the metaphorical potential there - all that lining up the way it does.

But on the topic of "awayness", I once wrote in my journal the following line: To the heart already fondest, all awayness is a plague.

And now the line haunts me. Even in moments of what I believe to be complete fulfillment, I am haunted by the thought. Away. To be away. Being away from something or someone or someplace. But distance is distance, is it not? And I am always away? All ways away from all, but somehow still entirely vulnerable.

As I passed the deer, the one who wanted whatever "away" she could claim, I yelled, again aloud, "You ran alongside me! You felt it!" And I repeated the lines, with manic determination, again and again, not knowing exactly what I meant - not knowing what there was to be "felt". What was there to feel in that moment? Some silly single something? Dear Deer, What message have you to deliver? It kills me not to know. I ran too, and was running, and I knew it. I felt it. Did you?

See, my whole plan, tonight, during the drive, was to talk to myself. I wanted to say everything aloud, and I mostly did. This was after I smoked whatever I smoked, of course, and I thought I might feel somehow more "in-tune" to self-directed criticism. And perhaps, you know, I think I was, because as I drove, I'd press against the steering wheel with a scrap of paper and a pen, and record my little moments.

First, I paid my dues to the in-between. The here and there, that is. What is mine and what is not mine, and what never will be mine, and what I never want to be mine. "I'm full, I don't want any more," I thought, and then kept thinking, if only to betray myself.

I found the one word that describes quite accurately what I want out of life. I found it once before, but then I wasn't alone, and it was different. Here, again, it made me feel manically determined. I felt almost euphorically disconnected from the source. Perhaps because I knew that, in that moment, the word was entirely mine. The one word is "involvement". More than anything, I want to be involved. In something, anything, everything - I could even be involved with nothingness and that, too, might be fine. "What a word!" I thought. "Involvement."

And I laughed.

I then began to consider what it was that held me back from becoming involved. This one was hard to place - to find the right words for. I searched my vocabulary, and passed so many words. Finally, I decided. I think it is an overzealousness. Not zealousness, but something pathologically "too". It is some overblown, unspecified desire that overlooks too many critical details. And I lose my footing to those details so often, it seems, that I am forced forever in to debt. Debt on an emotional level, that is. Am I trapped?

I often feel trapped. When I feel trapped - and this is another thing I spoke to myself about - I tend to follow a very strict routine. There is a hierarchy to my coping mechanisms. First, if it is at all possible, I will cry. This is of the utmost importance. It is what I do first, before all else, if I am able, and nothing will prevent me from doing so. It costs nothing to cry. But if I can't cry, for whatever reason, or if I have finished crying, I will write. I will write instead of draw or brood or sigh. It is my responsibility to myself, I feel, and I simply will not balance my priorities any other way. And last, after all the rest of it, I will talk and I will vindicate, or forgive. Sometimes simultaneously, but oftentimes in linear sequence. I'm generally always forgiving. I will forgive you for making me happy. I will forgive you for making me sad. I will even forgive you for offering nothing. Just grant me time to work through it in my own way, and I will forgive anything, anyone, for the time being, until I must run through the process again. And it is a process. It is how I process ideas and, if I am willing, I will learn. Willingness, however, is another story altogether …

I realized, also, that it hurts. But I did not speak aloud about the pain.

The pain can be distracting, and when it interrupts, it is introduced. I would say, again aloud, and this time with false enthusiasm, " ... Aaaand we're back!" I would imagine myself as the host of some late night television show, introducing an unpopular guest. The sarcastic tone in my voice would imply that I am not entirely sure whether or not the frequent appearance of this particular guest will boost ratings. Deciding, again, to be optimistic, as I tend to do, I thought, "They may not like you now, but the unlikeliness of you, your subversion, might keep them coming back!"

"I'll sell myself out!" I thought. "Just like Johnny Eck, the half-boy! Just like the lion-faced man, and the horse-faced woman! Just like the circus sideshow!" At least, then, I wouldn't be alone. But would I get paid, or would the pay be plenty? And, if so, by who, and how much, and in what currency? The economy of things is bothersome. I wish I were an anarchist.

And, finally, I heard this song, and the song said, "I like the morning. I like the day. The sun is my morning. All my life was a morning." I felt strangely at ease with that statement - I could relate, so I did. And that, too, in its own way, was moving.

Dear God, whatever you are, take my writing with grace and be patient. Don't take it out on the words. They don't mean it. Obviously, they don't mean it. And neither do I. I am a pacifist. I am not a propagandist. I can't be a propagandist. God, look at me. I'm a propagandist.

016.

2009-04-15T00:58:00.000-07:00

I write a lot about writers, and I write a lot about myself, but I've never done much writing about myself as a writer. I'll start by posting the first paragraph of my essay on Virginia Woolf. Here, I'm attempting to critique how she negotiates fragmented reality and the death of subjective idealism in her novel-length essay, "A Room of One's Own":

The brain desires an organization to match that of the body – each bloody pound throbbing with such indisputable purpose until it tires. The very idea of negotiating one’s fragmented reality – the death of subjective idealism – seems to stand testament to this incalculable endeavor. In the case of Virginia Woolf, we find a mind enamored with the ambiguity of its own strange eagerness to scheme. Perhaps Woolf’s mind is unfettered by negotiation, because the very act of negotiating is negotiable. The mind wanders, and as it flexes, sometimes towards and sometimes away from the idealism it seems driven to pin down, it throbs with a purpose less routine, but with purpose nonetheless. A thought in exchange for another thought, to Woolf, is a fine trade. Of course, Woolf’s meandering mind is not entirely aimless, for there is a definable niche for her conscious voice. In Woolf’s “A Room of One’s Own”, this voice is a suggestive utterance humming busily above the static hum of male voices, droning and monotone, almost somber in its tenacious conservatism. Woolf, as a writer, as a negotiator, as a mind, is haunted by the perceived economic potential of the female body. Her motivation, it seems, lines up in direct opposition to the patriarchal traditions upheld by the post-WWI society of the upper-middle class.

And now, here it is. My understanding of myself as a writer. But I should think up a prompt, shouldn't I? Yeah, yeah. Prompt ... prompt ... prompt. Okay, well first I should perhaps list a few basic themes and dichotomies:

A very pronounced anxiety towards capitalist hierarchies, consumerism, and colonialism, perhaps even the very notion of a "civilized society". Heredity pitted against environmentalism. Mysticism, occultism, animism. Native tradition as a very significant facet of human history. A sense of misplaced identity, wanting, searching. Politicized virginity. A skepticism towards Christian divinity. The hypocrisies of "God". The idiotic patriot, the pig-faced nationalist. Social pathology and psychological illness, the credibility (or lack thereof) of psychiatry. Corrupt intellectuals, the art of manipulation, how this methods of manipulation are dispersed. Scientific myth, or science as poetic genre. The artist's orientation in the context of all human history. A distaste towards artistic "masterpieces". Marxist sentiments / acknowledging the pitfalls of such idealism / a curious affection towards the idea of anarchy. Selfish love, the dangers of superficiality, sexuality as a problematic means to justify one's selfhood. The myth of the resolved. The myth of racial superiority. Roleplay and satire involving popular figures in Western mythology / adopting the role of a "virtuous" character and intentionally defaming the self in order to debunk the very convention of "virtue". Outdated myth and moral codes. The tactile: smell, sight, touch, taste, hear. Bodily function, filth and shame. Vulnerability and self-doubt. The definition of "crime", the fallacy of "justice". Private devotion, private observation, private consultation. The promise of a posthumous future, the insistence of history, the inevitability of time. Sincerity. Beauty that exists between, and not inside. The loves of my life.

But I still need a prompt, or a thesis, in order to criticize my own literary disposition in essay format ... I need to make a soup! Boil broth, add assorted eatables. Or, for the patriot, a hotdog. Put the dog to the bun, add fixin's, consume. Oh, nevermind. I prefer lists. I'll probably never graduate college anyway - why exert any amount of effort trying to pin down some clever amalgamation? Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatta trip! I'm on academic probation for flunking a course on contemporary art history. Oh, I just gush personality. Oh, oh, oh. Oh, no.

I love it. I love it. It was fun, and I love it. Tender feelings. Feeling tender. And all that muck and mush, blood and guts, all that life and love and space. A lotta space. So much space. And literal shapes. Whoa. Back up, reverse, rewind, eject.

015.

2009-04-08T21:08:00.000-07:00

An excerpt from my 2008 dream diary.

2/10/08:
I'm engaged in some kind of argument with Lauren, set at a restaurant. A few people from school are present and watching. I'm with a boy I don't know. He is tall, muscular build, dark hair, dressed casually. I'm comfortable with him, but have a few uncertainties - we seem to be in some kind of relationship that I am not satisfied with. I don't remember what else happened at the restaurant. Outside, we run from a school - it felt like Memphis Collage of Art, but looked more like the Memphis pyramid merged with the Pink Palace, very green woods beyond. We're were fleeing the school, running towards this hill that sloped down into a lake. We are warned to get off the hill, but we stay on our path and descend the hill anyway. A little girl is sent to chase after us. The sky looks intense, and everything seems to be caught between a gloomy, hazy-purple darkness and an eerie orange-white light. There are loons in the lake. At first, I see only one. Then, many. A large group of them, some that look normal and some without white bands on their necks, and some with very short bills. They're rising up from the water slowly, head and neck first, like whales coming up to breathe. This boy and I run to the bottom of the hill to get closer to the loons. At the bottom, there's this clearing on a small piece of land - like a jetty of sorts. It feels watery, and I may have still been able to see the lake beyond it, but it wasn't as pronounced as it had been. The clearing looked a little like a brighter, more grassy de Chirico landscape. Or Dali, at the risk of sounding like an idiot. Kind of barren and surreal, with little plateaus that rose up to form all sorts of platforms, like small stages - now, thinking about it, it reminds me of a still life set-up. In this landscape, directly in front of us, we see a lot of animals. Amongst them, a baby mammoth and a baby elephant, a Canada Goose with its wings outstretched, a loon all curled up and feathery (not slick, like they normally are), a bright red wolf that looked almost like a cartoon. I noticed they seemed to be arranged in such a way that a prehistoric animal was standing, crouching, or laying next to its modern-day ancestor. The groups began to transition. A set of animals would disappear and a new set would take their place. While I'm watching this, I'm standing very close to this boy. My arm is wrapped around his, and we're holding hands. I wrap my other arm around him and the tips of our fingers touch very gently.

014.

2009-04-08T20:59:00.001-07:00

TERRITORY, prose poem from a year ago? two years?

Now I know you, and I was born here today - the second coming of Leopold, springing forth from an inland sea to bloody my breast upon a crown of thorns. I am your monster, your mite, your thrilling, acute episodic dysphoria. However obtuse, however dangerous, however much I make men tremble, I am your pet. And now I know you.

Now I know you, and I'll set an army against God before watching you go blind. Take me by the collar, if you will, and set me off in the direction of the mountain. Let me knead the core from all flora, all fauna, and deliver them to you slowly, every rich and glistening mouthful. Living proof. And I'll lend everything to you, everything, everything, until your sentiments crumble beneath the extraterrestrial weight of such extraordinary color. And I'll bang the piano, I'll BANG the piano, I'LL BANG THE PIANO until you hear the spectacle of life ringing through the dark. And now I know you.

I know you as one second to flood the cosmos. I know you as I know infinity, everything, perpetuating outwards, moving all over, all at once, expanding on and on and on ... and you, I know you. I know you as an embryotic idea, untouched and feral, treading water in an animal womb. I know you here today, my birthday, as I come up chanting, as I come up laughing, thrashing, calling out for a wand and a red ring, someone to kiss and someone to kill, a monument, a monument, a monument and a home.

013.

2009-04-08T20:40:00.000-07:00

I found the dirty spoons
I found the ones with --
And on that terrible day when I finally found you,
I considered:

Hugo, I need to speak with you. I'm having a breakdown. I've been looking around a lot lately, and I've found and collected many strange things. I found the bubonic plague in an art history text. Oh! and it was intensely Romantic! so I went out looking for love. I found a little bench in a dark part of town and sat for a while, waiting on a man to come and kill me. Instead - and you'd never believe this, Hugo - instead, I came upon the man who assassinated J.F.K. He said, "Sorry, dove. Sorry, deer. Been there, done that." Alert the press, Hugo, because it wasn't Oswald. Well, actually, no, I didn't catch his name. You know how that goes, don't you? So, then, I found a taxi, and the taxi took me home. I was sitting and feeling, sitting and feeling, sitting and feeling. I found a lump in my breast and two holes in my nose. I exclaimed, "Oh, see! Someone's been doing some drilling!" So I found my way to the sanitarium, cried "Sanctuary!", and, from the front desk, called 9-1-1. I said, to the phone, I said, "Hello, hello, a moment of your time, please man. I'm vacationing in the Far East for a while. Could you feed my cat? She went missing a year or so ago, but I keep putting food out, and someone keeps eating it, so she must be around someplace!"

012.

2009-04-08T01:07:00.000-07:00

Signifier: Page of Cups

A young person who brings a message of love
Naivete and vulnerability in matters of the heart
Willing to take an emotional risk
Willing to give it my all

Situation At Hand: The Chariot

I must learn to make bipartisan decisions
I must resolve the issue in my own mind
I must bring all parts of myself together

Obstacle: Temperance

I must remain patient
I must wait for things to develop in their own time

What Is Known Objectively: Death (reversed)

I am putting off necessary changes
I must experience metamorphosis

Past Influences Affecting the Situation: 4 of Cups

Apathy and withdrawal
Let-down after a great build-up

Past Influence That Is Fading Away: Knight of Cups

Blind infatuation
Travel

Influence Coming Into Being: Justice

I must be willing to make concessions
I must seek guidance from the inner-self rather than from human advisors
Enjoy the calm before taking action
(Third party could present a fair outcome)

Current State of Mind: The Sun

The dawning of a new day
The past is now bearing fruit
Optimism, prosperity

Living Situation: Queen of Cups

I must learn to use mature judgment and intuition to resolve conflict
I must be patient, I must be kind

What I Both Want and Fear: 4 of Pentacles

I do not want to feel that I must always keep myself well-guarded, but I do out of fear
I do not want to feel as if I must always be prepared for failure and loss, but I do out of fear
I cannot hang on in such an inflexible manner
If I do not overcome this mental block, I will miss opportunities for happiness
I should not fear change

Likely Outcome: 9 of Cups

"The wish card"
My dreams will come true

011.

2009-04-07T09:22:00.000-07:00

Valkyrie and the Chosen Brave

Somewhere between here and Valhalla, I realized a love worth loving. And I wrote privately, without counsel from Language, that your blood is somehow more blood, and your body more a body than any of comparable mass. Your teeth are the very teeth I learnt could chew, and your foot comes down more a step than any step every laid. Somewhere your rib, the most solid bone-yellow beam, fortifies a cage unlike any other. It is as if it were the only true cage, and behind that, the heart pounds more generously and with greater intent than an entire nation of hearts. But real love flees from the word, and the flight is superficially short - a shortness that mocks the metaphysics of emotion in such an unforgiving way, and with a wet snarl. So that flight lasts only in love, and that love does last and can be measured in the tiny, rhythmic contractions of some soul's warm, pulsing core. And why, in the name of Heaven, should one impose upon this lasting triumph only to recite again and again some solemn pledge? Only to watch the words charge out with wild, propagandistic abandon and bully the body into its deepest bunker, lithe soldiers to their posts, all other faculties crowd the strategy board and flatten so radically against it. That flatness. It is a critical symptom of plagiarized passion, that basic willingness that seems to almost lack humility. What contrived ceremony. Like picking ripples from a wave and naming it an ocean. There's no world for this lofty love, no word. A cage unlike any other cage, perhaps, for want of a better word.

010.

2009-03-23T01:29:00.000-07:00

You should see him. He's like a fucking spirit. He walks around loosely and comes down light. It's all very beautiful and poetic and luxurious. The ritual was brief, but forgiving. A birthday ritual - I was dressed as the totem deer. Your birthday. Your 23 long years of this have come down to this, sitting with some silly girl, not a deer at all, writing in milk and fire in a dark field. I almost feel compelled to tear out the antlers and apologize. For what, I can't say exactly. Not a pretty boy, like you. Not a blue eye. Barely an artist. Some fake fawn. Something there deeply disturbed me, maybe the dizzy lowing of cows in a distant pasture, maybe the sadness I'm not proud enough to admit, or the difficult, almost unfathomable admiration I hide for selfish reasons. The way the sun before dusk is the color of a traffic cone - how tacky. And my heart always pounds so hard and heavy when I lay next to someone for the first time, and I swear I can't breathe at all for at least five minutes. Not even really touching, but it's still such a thrill, and it happens so seldom. I lay there thinking about the thud-thud (skip) thud (skip) thud-thud-thud of my breath and body, begging, "Someone, make it stop!" It's just so mortifying. The unfamiliar, I mean. It really does manifest like illness. So I keep to myself, mostly, and prefer to sleep alone. Maybe I'm deranged . . . I wonder. Offense and defense never seem to balance out in me. It seems so dangerous not to shift to-and-fro.

So I'm a kid, and there's a groundhog out in the yard, in all its shocking simplicity. What am I supposed to think? I'd have never assumed it was dead all along.

The thing worked like a star.

009.

2009-02-24T00:47:00.000-08:00

Fluency and sincerity. Are they not one in the same? So you want me to learn your goddamn French language. Master false erudition while I'm still young, and all of that. And meanwhile I have no idea how to really swap words with poverty stricken minority groups. The bedraggled black man shuffling over to claim a fistful of nickels. I can't speak openly with the mentally ill. Even when I thought I was going crazy, when I likened institutionalization to springtime in Heaven, I couldn't have said a word. And I haven't spoken to my grandmother in three years. She's as old as sin. She'll be dead before I reach 25, no doubt. But I can afford to put it off another month, right? Just never had the time, yeah? I'm busy, full of energy, just living life. There never seems to be enough time to talk to Grandmother, about squirrels and slaves and the beautiful silk flowers at Grandfather's grave. With that in mind, I'll conquer linguistics only after I've had a conversation with my grandmother that doesn't end five minutes after it's begun, with me feeling like a criminal for raising the pitch of my voice to sound sweeter, happier, more understanding, full of love - because it's not there. I'm a phony. It's never been there. And if I wanted her to know the truth, I'd tell her how I'm paranoid and unfocused and lonely. I'd tell her that I've never felt her White God in the breeze. I'd tell her how I trifle ad nauseam over my teeth and hair, skin and body. I'd tell her how, if Satan were real, I'd accept his mark and go dancing on everything that used to mean something. I'd tell her how nothing is sacred, how no one is nice, how I already doubt the significance of my life endeavor. And you want me to learn French - a second language to ignore everything in. Not today. I am fluent in zero languages.

008.

2009-02-05T00:15:00.000-08:00

I was laying in bed thinking about how I wish I had just completely lost it that one time when all that was holding me together was the promise of infinite television. Now I'm half-recovered and all I can do to keep real quiet is think about how much I'd love to be on television.

I want to be a writer I want to be a writer
I want to be a writer I want to be a writer
I want to be a writer I want to be a writer
I want to be a writer I want to be a writer

God, just let me have something.

007.

2009-02-01T10:47:00.001-08:00

i mean, maybe you'll fall in love with everything you see and everyone you meet. maybe you'll pack up your shit, and i do mean all of it - the dead butterflies, all your pictures, those porcelain birds - and just up and leave. walk straight out the door, every minute another threshold, whatever. so you're leaving. and you say goodbye and everything, and you're gone.

and maybe it turns out that freedom ain't always as palpable as you imagined it to be. and maybe you won't always feel the wind in your hair. dirt or cocaine or whatever caught under your fingernails. and maybe the music don't ever build into a crescendo. so what?

so you're as quiet as a dead dog and you're wondering, god, how am i goin' make this work? it's foolish, you're ugly, something else is already going on, somewhere, the walls is closing in, can't hardly breathe and you're losing it. do you run for your life, or what?

yeah, it's nice to meet you. yeah, i love this. i love this ne-nu-nuh-nuh-newness! it's my pleasure. i am ingratiated to you because of all that 500-somethin' somethin'- miles of farmland. and somethin'. and then you place your bet and then you're fucking through, and the story never even got good. what next? the skyscrapers all just looming.

say you lost the gamble, and then what? is that when you really set off searching for that real, raw, tangible freedom? the punctuation between unresolved passions.

i thought it would happen and then it didn't (freedom)

i thought i had made it but then i hadn't (freedom)

i thought it sounded reasonable and then it wasn't (freedom)

006.

2009-01-28T00:56:00.001-08:00

ROAD RULES, OR HOW I CHOOSE TO LIVE MY LIFE:

// Self-pity is lavish. The truly diligent, the truly steadfast and driven, have unlearned such petty habits.

// For those seeking fame, instead adopt a genuine interest in honesty. In candidness. In charity, in human rights, in social justice. Be overtly idealistic and covertly practical.

// When you're overwhelmed, examine your own individual, emotional history in the context of all human history, toss your baggage and keep moving.

// Don't complicate your ideology for the sake of complicating your ideology. Avoid fragility. Keep it simple. Keep it strong. Stay open and alert.

// Everything is at least kind of funny, in some way.

// Consider this notion of "respect". Keeping the peace at your own expense may seem noble, but don't let it become routine. Don't peg yourself as the martyr for your own selfish causes.

// Imagine your life as a tragicomedy in however-many acts. Isn't it nice? The epic, the mundane, all of it.

// Be wary of people who don't like music and animals.

// Love is real and important. Love as much as you can, and do it in earnest.

// Understand your limitations conceptually. You'll find that they're pretty malleable, so take risks.

// Beware of hero worship.

// Stand behind your convictions, but be willing to compromise.

// Most of the things you want but don't need are just a real, tangible approximations of some idea or standard that was probably never uniquely yours to begin with. Look out for cultural memes. Try not to feel as if you ever really own anything.

// Racism (and all other genres of bigotry) probably sprung from sexism way back when, so try liking women. Like, as equals. Call off the witch hunt. Curb that pioneering, "conquer and seize" initiative. Don't consciously seek out a submissive partner. Don't patronize anyone.