Enigmatic Bliss (?)

Posted on February 27, 2010

She prefers to vanish as an enigma than disappear into the nebulous abyss…

(F.Y.I.)

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The Nonsense of Incubation

Posted on December 27, 2009

Devour

Devour

The room in which you sit is almost barren.

It is filled to the brim with games and memories and knick-knacks and words and ghosts and ribbons won at state-fairs long ago.

This room is miniscule in size and rather amorphous in its shape.

It is roughly the size of a high-school gymnasium and was clearly designed by one of those early, radical Cubists.

There is no way out of this room.

There are three doors. One leads to the closet. One leads to a hallway.

And the one with the daunting metal lock on it leads to the outside.

There is also a small window that floats far, far above your head.

There is no glass in this window and so you’ve become well acquainted with the feral whims of Mother Nature and the robust fury of her elements.

You should relocate.

You should switch up the view and explore life against another wall. But you don’t.

You think, “Maybe tomorrow…”

Which is the very same thought you had yesterday.

You sit Indian-style atop a wooden futon and devour a crust-free cucumber and cream cheese sandwich, which has been cut into four efficient triangles.

All the while, blueberry-sized bits of gravel are being dispatched through the pane-less opening near the ceiling.

They seem to be launched with force, perhaps by a hellion with a slingshot.

They pelt you hard in the abdomen.

You feel like this assault should be painful or at least evocative, somehow.

Shouldn’t you be moved to build a ladder out of all the useless chattel in your midst?

Might this ladder and the act of creating it, aid in the possibility of eradicating the omni-present torpor that plagues you?

“There is sense in the thing…” you think. Still, you are dubious.

“Say I do build this ladder and climb its rungs…then what?”

“Am I meant to cover the opening or am I expected to crawl through it?”

Such lyrical questions deserve shrieking, passionate answers…

And since you’ve nothing of that ilk prepared, you opt instead to focus on the refreshing and delicious cucumber crunching between your teeth at present.

You decide that while pickling a cucumber seems to be a relatively straightforward and rewarding process; turning a pickle back to a cucumber would likely be a challenging feat, steeped in disappointment. Indeed.

Satisfied that you’ve effectively banished all notions of ladders, and bridges, and tunnels, and viaducts and have successfully reverted to benign acceptance for the moment; you place the plate on which your sandwich had lived inside the dumbwaiter and ring a bell for service.

(The room also has a dumbwaiter. You’d once considered it a ‘way out,’ but that was before you knew better.)

‘Smarting’ has ceded to ‘throbbing’ and the red, gravel-induced welts which adorn your abdomen are beginning to become blood-filled blisters.

Still you reason, “I’ll mobilize when I am moved to.”

You languidly reach for a nearby stack of books and ashes and who-knows-what-else. You’ve been meaning to organize these piles for some time now…

There is a newspaper near the top, dated sometime-before-today. You typically shun the news, but you rationalize that its contents are no longer news precisely, rather history.

You skim the letters which form words, until your eyes focus on a small sidebar below the fold.

The headline reads:

“A Tale of Nothing Much”

There was once a moderately happy couple who indulged a moderately lengthy courtship, before marrying in a moderately fancy wedding. They were wed for a moderate amount of time before they divorced. They split their moderate assets evenly and drove away from the situation in their respective mid-range vehicles, each moderately unscathed. They went on to loathe one another only a moderate amount.

“The whole thing seems rather unremarkable…” you muse and then toss the paper aside.

“Enough organization for now,” you decide.

A cicada has penetrated the aperture in the wall, and now buzzes near your ears and forehead.

You swat at it mildly and then close your eyes in attempt to pretend that it isn’t there.

You figure it’ll leave soon.

You would leave if there were a way out.

But there isn’t.

You remove a necklace which holds a weighty key from around your neck, and place it atop the metal toolbox on the floor next to the futon.

You need a nap.

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Shifting Paradigms

Posted on December 26, 2009

The Chasm

The Chasm

Things are happening. Changing.

The paradigms are shifting.

These movements are at once very fast and yet almost imperceptible to the naked eye.

As they should be. As they must be.

After all, there are those among us who are ill-prepared for the revolution.

Revolt!

The word, even in its simple, written form, clatters and crashes and splatters itself across the tablet.

I am filled with revolt.

Forever in the process of ‘coming around’, ‘rethinking’, and ‘retooling.’

Coup d’whatever-the-eff-I-am-currently-railing-against…

And lately, I’ve been trying to overthrow the very pattern itself…

After all, it can be ever so tiresome living in this constant state of upheaval…

Fear not, I am stating this simply as a means of explanation for my experimentation.

I have not permanently abandoned my characteristic esprit de guerre.

I am merely playing. I am dipping an explorational toe into the other side…

The more innate side of the affair, if you will…

And so I experimentally ask, “What of the natural breaks?”

Why don’t we ever give them the opportunity to show us what they’re made of?

What if we gave wild revolution the day off, and let the proverbial chinks in the armor appear when they might?

What if, just for kicks, we were to trust that natural selection will create the appropriate clumps and deposit all of life’s little idiosyncrasies into their proper categories; thus allowing for a natural situational breaking point to occur?

And now, imagine if such things were possible without any input from us whatsoever…

And so, with my ego shivering and fearful in the corner, I boldly posit this notion…

What if we really can have it all?

Why must the momentous overhaul of revolution always be accompanied by

unnatural, cataclysmic, golf-ball-sized-hail fallout?

Fuck.

Please pay no mind to my ego as it drowns in possibility.

So now, let’s suppose that we’ve succeeded in ceasing our attempts to cause the effect, and now we’re allowing the natural breakpoints to do our dirty work for us, and though we find ourselves slightly under-whelmed, we are sort of comfortably numb in the way that the simple-minded people might be…

And now we fill the space formerly occupied by the boisterous battle by breaking bread with the enemy, an act that was never possible back when we were annihilating everything in our paths in the name of “Revolution!”

“This is quaint,” I decide, “in some progressively, passive-aggressive way, anyhow…”

Still, it occurs to me that the shock value of my newfound placidity will, at some juncture, wear thin.

At which point, the battle will return. As it must.

Eternally.

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Cleaning the Slay

Posted on November 14, 2009

Unmistakable November Energy

Unmistakable November Energy

Dear November,

At once friend and foe, it seems you have returned…

While there is little surprise herein, your particular brand of obscenity is always newly vexing.

Still, you have become gracefully nimble over time…

Where once you boorishly obliterated, now you quietly creep.

It is very nearly convincing, this act.

But unlike your façade, the battles you bring forth are not hushed.

They are brutal and bloody and bathed in disgraceful supposition.

Your sad aggression programs the minions for acceptance of their crushing fate.

Yet still we linger as lambs awaiting slaughter.

Neither do we flee and scream, nor idly surrender; instead we view you as spectators might. We gaze through telescopically-wide eyes, as you shamelessly defile life as it had been.

October feels like a time very far gone now.

I should like you better, sweet November, if at least you had the decency to be honest.

If you are vile, be very vile. If you are passionate, be it at it’s least restrained.

If you should like to be heard, please speak up.

Your riddles are complex.

Make no mistake, I do not judge you, November, for I, too am afflicted.

I seem also to be saddled with an inability to express my meaning. And so we are the same in that regard. You have my deepest empathy… for as you know, there is little worse than possessing great truths too weighty for utterance.

And so, “riddle me this…”

(It continues.)

In remarkable wonder and indelible knowledge that I am yours,

Girl

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Written Omissions…

Posted on November 12, 2009

SHHHudder. Just listen

SHHHudder. Just listen

He was the second one. He emerged in the space between the first and the third.

She promised to love him forever, for now.

He loved her well enough. (It was never enough for her.)

In the beginning: “You are red. Always running from here to there and there to here. Where are you trying to get to?”

She is unsure. So, she stops for a spell.

Red is not well suited to her, this much is sure. She ponders her options…

Meanwhile: (She likes his colour) “May I have some of yours, please? We can share it…”

He thinks she has a pirate’s smile. He is well familiar with grifters of her sort.

“Still, there can be little harm. So long as she keeps her hands where my eyes can see…”

Reasonablizations. Rationalizations.

Together they are green.

It is suitable.

Time passes.

(It always does.)

Verdant days grow mold. Trash is strewn atop the moss.

Transcendence cedes to the murky mire.

Eventually: “You are grey. This place is killing you.”

She leaves then. It is her way.

He follows her. (He fears that she will lose her way)

After all, he does love her well enough.

The pavement is cracked. She prefers it so.

The monochromatic starkness suits her.

It turns her orange. She thrives in the hellfire.

She sidles through the alley. It is fun for her.

He follows, always 10 paces behind. It is not fun for him.

But it is his burden. She is his burden.

“That tiny, treacherous, spindly girl,” he thinks, “how she does love to hide.”

He tells himself it’s a game. (Plot. Coup.)

He lifts the lid of a garbage can. Still searching.

(Prepare.)

He hears her tinkling laughter then. It emanates from a foreign space.

It floats through the air, oxidizing at an alarming rate.

Daggers made from the remains of her rusty mirth, draw and quarter him. (Destroy.)

Broken now, he fits easily within the confines of the receptacle.

He piles bits of rubbish atop his own corpse. He is hiding. (Game. Over.)

Anyway, it doesn’t matter what colour you are in the dark.

Reasonablizations. Rationalizations.

Time passes.

(It always does)

“The air is too thin down here,” she thinks “there is not enough breath to be had.”

She negotiates with the gatekeeper. She agrees to die a little.

What had been “not enough,” is now.

(It is hard being her keeper) She is her own burden now.

It is not fun for her.

Time passes.

(It always does)

Diverge. Converge. Submerge.

Eternal. Return.

And then: “You are a shadow”

And then: “I always was.”

And then: “Ever allusive”

And then: “Ever illusive”

And then: “You look just like me.”

And then: “I always have.”

(Checkmate.)

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The Force of Fire

Posted on October 5, 2009

It tends to hasten things...

It tends to hasten things...

“What colour is that?”

“What?”

It is then that she notices him holding her tiny hand in his.

“It’s called Russian Navy.”

A bit embarrassed. She. Not he.

“Same?” He nods, indicating her toes.

“Yes…”

Slight nod. Implicit approval.

One leaves, then.

He. Not she.

One moment ago: they.

Standing so close that their noses touched; their breath intermingling.

Inhale. Exhale. Wrap. Twirl. Become.

And now…parted.

She: solo. Sit. Sat. Sunk.

Suddenly guilty, she wonders how long it’ll take him to realize that she’d devoured his heart in that moment…during that minute nanosecond, when she’d glimpsed his insides through the all-seeing holes in his head.

She’s quick. (He’d never given her credit for that.) But, (she concedes) not quick enough.

She’d wanted to siphon all of his knowledge and pillage his innards.

She, being equitable and fair always, would have traded her entrails for his during this period of exploration.

She’d never ask him to go without.

Not for a second, even.

“But his Spleen!” her own insides silently scream, “My God! If we are asked to live another moment minus a thorough exploration and intimate excavation of his Spleen…”

Pushy fucking innards.

(Tactical switch: alliance building, now) “…honestly, we MUST know. If we do not, we fear that the future of mankind may be in deeper jeopardy that anyone knows.”

They are serious. The mission is clear. She had just gathered the courage to bring up the barter when he’d suddenly departed.

The Russians were calling. The Navy sent word.

Her insides are enraged. Borderline demented. She, nonplussed.

Reaching, “Well, at least we ate his heart.”

This does little to placate them. She has no ability to continue attempts at reason.

Waste of time, assuredly…

She had mashed her senses and emotions together long ago. She had turned them from separate, feeling, knowing, beautiful, individuals into cattle and sheep and various other followers.

Numbing had stolen the yoke in a violent coup and had subsequently become the Commander.

He believes in ruling through threats of violence.

Dogmatic, and rarely chastened, young Sadness is currently under fire…

“NO! Do not you dare FEEL that! I am warning you!”

“Weakness will not be tolerated”

(He is out of control, this much is clear…)

“You asked for it!”

(Apologies sweet, mislaid, Sadness…)

“Reticence!” Numbing beckons his faithful militant.

(barely audible) ”yes, sir?”

“Smother Sadness…now.”

(inaudible)

“No, you idiot, don’t murder him, he comes in handy when we are trying to appear…oh, never you mind… just suffocate him so that he passes out for a spell.”

(She shuts her eyes and opens them when she hears nothing)

Sadness lies before her. Neatly sleeping and filed next to Aching, Lust and Desire.

Pathetic, almost… how easily extinguished these purportedly ’strong’ siblings actually were.

How quickly they submit. All a facade. They appear content now. Stupid.

George meet Lennie. Lennie, George.

The ‘weak ones’ would be woken for weddings and funerals and parties involving babies.

Only occasionally, though. Not as necessary anymore as it had been in the beginning.

The Solders had become more adroit at handling the ‘weak ones’ former responsibilities.

At this point, allowing them to come out and play at all was merely a tactical diversion.

A war game created by the Captain of Covert Ops.

The Captain of Cover up’s.

The Captain of ‘move-along-nothing-to-see-here’

“Best to allay the rampant fears of the foolish masses,” he’d say in his prototypical boom.

It was dance done for them. The rest. (Never for her.)

But suddenly, though they appear to be lying in rest, supposedly anesthetized, all of those misplaced Needs, Desires, and Wants are choking her. The walls are drawing in. The floor is rising to meet the ceiling and the ceiling lowering to meet the floor. The toilet and sink now float near her ears. Must open a window. No window. They don’t open, anyway. Air’s too thin up here. Cant. Breathe.

DING.

“Ladies and Gentleman, the Captain has turned on the fasten seat belt sign. If you are up and about the cabin, please return to your seats and fasten your seat belts. We are headed into some storms that could be deadly. Cheers!”

And then…

“신사 숙녀 여러분, 선장 고정 좌석 벨트 사인이 켜져있다. 만약 당신이 오두막에 대해서, 당신 자리로 돌아가 주시기 바랍니다 안전 벨트를 장착합니다. 우리는 치명적일수있는 그 어떤 폭풍우로 향하고있습니다. 건배! “

“Gibberish. Nonsense talkers,” she growls

A quarter turn to the mirror reveals sunken eyes, too large for the head of the one they adorn. Cherubic cheeks? Missing! M.I.A.! Call the authorities, post haste! Time is of the essence!

Blasphemy! The angelic flesh which once adorned this jaw; pilfered!

A.P.B.! A.P.B.!

Now, barely recognizable…hastily replaced with these gaunt, hollowed out, shadow beasts, which had undoubtedly belonged to some whore from Minneapolis who’d met an untimely death at 2am in middle America. Though her liver was shot and her heart unsalvageable, they’d been able to harvest her cheeks. Thank God, she’d marked the ‘donor’ box on her license. Rest in peace.

She smoothes her right eyebrow, and plucks a non-existent fuzz from her sweater.

Partially here, partially gone, the sinner turned saint is stuck in the middle with no recourse.

Maybe a couple of days in Guadalajara would help.

Where is this vessel headed, anyhow?

She pulls herself halfway unto the sink in order to have space to shove her arm in her satchel.

She is grateful that the space has opened again. That incident with the walls might nearly have driven her mad.

She unearths her boarding pass.

Tokyo. Fuck.

What the fuck might happen in Tokyo? What would she do?

She doesn’t speak a lick of Portuguese.

“Imbecilic airline wench…I knew she had it out for me. Never trust a gap-toothed smile. You know better…,” she tells herself.

She’d specifically told the agent that she’d wanted a one-way ticket to ‘the furthest location from here as humanly possible.’ She hadn’t counted on the agent having no geographical sense.

TOKYO? Really?!

‘Specificity. Must learn to be specific.’ Duly noted.

This would’ve been so much better were she headed to Helsinki. Much further away.

And at least they spoke the language. Or she did…

Fading. Fuzzy. Goddamn locked window.

Fake it. Fake it. Breathe. Fake it.

Okay.

How different might Helsinki and Tokyo really be?

Architecture in Tokyo.

No, the Architecture too, belongs in Helsinki. Faded memory. Long ago. Song. Tinkley chimes. Angelic voice speaks of  “frequent lies.” Speaks of “broken legs” and “arms in slings,” and “secret cries” and “diamond rings.”

Such a pretty tune and such wretched thoughts. Pretty. Wretched. Pretty wretched.

Frantic rapping on the door disrupts her reverie.

‘JUST A MOMENT!’ she hears herself yell. It sounds like her, anyway. Hard to say definitively.

Restless fucking natives. If this were any indication of how Tokyo was to be, she’d surely have to hop a pontoon to Australia imminently. She’d no patience for impatience, you see.

‘Animals, all of them.’ she mutters

They had no respect for the existential masturbation she was performing in here…

No empathy for the highly flammable mental exorcism she was undergoing.

More banging.

These bastards clearly don’t understand the language.

“Door swings out!’ she calls

It does, nearly taking out the midget wearing green, in the process.

‘Beware the Russian Navy,’ she warns as she pushes past.

Her words, bathed in kindness, were intended to make him fear her, but her tactic was certainly not as effective as it might’ve been, had they the benefit of shared linguistics.

She marches past them. On display. Parade.

‘76 Trombones led the big parade. With one hundred and ten….’

110 what? What were there 110 of, meant to accompany the 76 trombones?

Brief thought of awakening ‘Intellect’ and asking the question, but ‘Memory’ was knocked out and nestled in his bosom. No way. The risk associated with unintentionally rousing that trifling Plebeian, was simply far too great.

24, 23, 22,…

Look left at 19, look left at 19. Casual left at 19.

21, 20…

“NOW! NOW! LOOK LEFT!”

Looks Left.

Inhales in preparation for ’sigh of relief’ to be released at 18.

And then…

INTERCEPTION!

Right hand tapped. Freeze tag. Freeze.

Whispered. “Hey…”

It’s too loud, here. Move. Do it. Whirring engine. Roaring crowd. Never heard, never happened. Unfreeze thyself. Move.

No power. Out of gas. Frozen. Dead.

Louder. ‘Hey, come here.’

Command. Oblige.

Wordless lean to the…right. (Fuck)

“The Russian Navy is almighty. You should keep it.”

Unfrozen. Still frostbitten. “It does not belong to me.”

Hand dropped. Or pulled. Unsure.

18, 17, 16, 15, 14, 13…

Turn to the right. Sit. Buckle.

DING

“Ladies and Gentleman, we realize you have a choice when you fly and we thank you choosing Evanescent Air. Kindly brace for impact.”

12, 11, 10….

“신사 숙녀 여러분, 우리는 당신이 날 때 우리는 당신이 사라져가는 항공을 선택 감사선택의 여지가 알고있습니다. 좋은말 충격에 대비하라.”

9, 8, 7….

She is grateful that they had missed that.

The chloroform was still being tested and was not yet on the ‘Official List of Approved Methods of Consciousness Suspension’, but Numbing would surely fast track it for habitual use, after witnessing how Fear, Faith and Hope had remained dormant through these fateful shenanigans.

6, 5, 4

She languidly swipes at a tickle that taunts her ear. It persists.

Careful to avoid any sudden movement, she shifts her eyes towards the left.

Rebellion has risen. He is cloaked in garments she instantly recognizes as belonging to Senescence.

Now is when Surprise and Confusion would have prompted her to react on their behalf.

Those days are gone, though.

No sudden movements.

She works from some hidden, manufactured, muscle memory, “But where is…?”

3,

No time to explain now. He is hurried. Coming here was risky. Time moves at warp speed.

So must we all.

He speaks resolutely. He begs that she listen. No time for repetition. She must focus now.

She promises.

2,

Intently. He riddles her this:

“What will conceive you? What will make your being take flight, ablaze in the hellfire? What will propagate the revelation of the truth betwixt your lies? When will your soul win the day? When will you get born?”

1

impact

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Flu Shots, PC’s, Anti-Virus, and Unintentional Threats

Posted on September 16, 2009

Opportunity. Cost?

Opportunity. Cost?

Girl walks into a bar and orders food ‘to-go.’
Bartender takes order and opportunity to strike up conversation.
Bartender offers Girl a drink. Girl asks for Diet Pepsi.

Bartender raises eyebrow and asks Girl if she’d care for something stronger. He adds that her drink is ‘on the house.’
Girl sticks with cola and Bartender sticks with conversation.
Until…

(We now join Bartender and Girl mid-conversation)

B- “So, you live on (Names Street)? We must be neighbors. I live on (Names Street).”
G- “Oh yeah, I live right on that corner.”
B- “In (Names Condo Complex)?”

(Girl nods)

B- “Wow, that building is nice! You live there all alone?”

Girl notes usage of term ”all alone” and vocal intonation with which it is delivered.
Girl cannot tell if Bartender pities her in manner of sickly, runt puppy left unpurchased at seedy, shopping mall pet store, or if he is implicitly inviting himself over, in attempt to save Girl from all-encompassing “loneliness.”

G- “No…I live in that building with Spouse.”

In the name of propriety, the recounting of this somewhat mundane, seemingly simplistic conversation betwixt strangers in a mostly empty, wholly un-busy bar, should continue…
It should go on to cover the beginning of football season, the lovely Fall weather, or Kanye West’s ridiculous outburst at the VMA’s…
But it does not.
Because Bartender walks away. Wordlessly. As in, ‘without further words.’
Almost as if Girl had asked Bartender if he’d ever made out with a goat or if he had a ‘thing’ for underage boys.
Alas, Girl had asked none of those things, nor anything remotely similar.
Girl had merely given an above-board answer to an apparently not-so-above-board question.

Stop. Story.
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
Girl walks into a drug store.
Rather, Girl walks into two separate drug stores, on two separate days, and witnesses two separate humans being inoculated with some form of anti-flu super venom.
Girl has brief thought of ponying up $24.99, in hopes of protecting self from heinous influenza and the fever, chills, sore throat, runny nose, can’t sleep, can’t eat, can’t breathe, ‘knock yo ass out,’ ugliness which the infection tends to bestow upon its victims.
Girl finds self walking away from the pharmacy counter, sans immunization.
Girl knows this is un-smart.
And Girl considers self intelligent.
But Girl also considers self a risk-taker.
Girl takes risk.
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
Girl likes Mac.
Apparently, Girl would rather have virus in self than in laptop, so though she does not invest in flu shots, she does invest in virus-free computers.
This is reasonable to Girl.
Girl also enjoys taking her virus-free electronics with her wherever she may roam.
Girl really likes to roam.
Girl begins to feel concern that continuing her nomadic journeys with her precious, snow-white Mac may eventually cause critical injury.
(To Mac, not Girl)
Girl investigates options. Girl also really likes options.
Girl discovers existence of 10-inch, uber-portable Netbook.
Girl is disheartened to learn that these Netbooks are PC’s.
Girl believes that PC is to Cain as Mac is to Able.
Still, Girl has soft spot for mobility and feels pull of temptation by innocuous Netbook. Girl is a long-time sucker for troublesome people and objects, in spite of or perhaps because of, their proclivity for finding themselves erring towards the dark side.
Internal debate ensues.
Spouse ends debate when he bestows a very compact, very powerful, and very alluring, jet-black PC upon Girl, in honour of her very recent birthday.
Girl is now free to gallivant with Cain the Evil PC, in tow.

Epilogue
In bid to protect health and vitality of Cain the Evil, Girl has several top-notch anti-virus systems installed in tiny, new companion.
Cain is now protected in manner similar to Fort Knox.
Girl cannot help but consider the psychology behind protecting electronics and not self.
Girl reconsiders flu shot.
Girl un-reconsiders flu shot after rationalizing that PC is weak when faced with threats of infiltration by malevolent forces and thus necessitates strength, in form of advanced fortification, while Girl is strong.
Girl prefers to battle mano-a-mano.
Girl really, really enjoys challenge.
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

(We re-join Girl waiting for food, just as Bartender places to-go order atop bar)

G- “Are you religious?”
B- “Well, I believe in God, but I’m a bad Christian.”
G- “Me too.”
B- “That was random.”
G- “No more random than you abruptly ending our conversation, immediately after my Spousal revelation…”

Bartender shows momentary sign of dismay, but recovers and quickly retorts:
B- “Well, I didn’t want to seem threatening. Even unintentionally.”

Girl internally scoffs but fights to remain composed.

G- “So, you were concerned that your flagrant male-ness might be construed as an unintentional threat on the heels of my matrimonial divulgation?”
B- “Well, you know…I have a girlfriend too.”

Girl suddenly feels as though she has entered insane, Twilight Zone-esque abyss.

G- “Right. So, regarding my religious query, I guess I just thought that perhaps you were the charter member of some religion wherein it is considered a sin to continue casually speaking to someone post-establishment of their marital status.”

Bartender smiles.
For his sake, Girl is glad that he is pretty.

Girl takes food, and last sip of “on-the-house” carbonated beverage and exits bar.
She does not feel threatened.
Intentionally or otherwise…

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I Got F*cked By Fleetwood Mac

Posted on August 23, 2009

How we ended up like this...

How we ended up like this...

We are the children who were told by our post-hippie parents that the ‘life-map’ was bullshit and that the ‘road less traveled’ should be sought out and pursued at any cost.

But suddenly, we are no longer children. We are adults.

And we are wandering down that “dark desert highway,” with all that “cool wind in our hair,” living just a beat to the right complete vagrancy, and the drugs aren’t cool anymore and our parents are either sipping champagne cocktails in Boca or in some 12-step recovery program, and no-one can guide because we are ‘fucking pioneers, man,’ but when the romanticism behind all that wears off, we’re just a group of dual diagnosis nomads self-medicating on the Adderall and Xanax we’ve stock piled, and wondering what the answer is. We’re lost.

So, now you have this generation of alleged ‘adults,’ thrust upon a world already dry-heaving with too much information, too many people, and way too much ‘enlightenment,’ and half of us are rebelling against our parents rebellion by being anything but what they told us to be, and getting corporate jobs and churning out scores of babies, while the other half of us are rebelling against ourselves for not rebelling all along; rather attempting to straddle the system, and thus creating mass chaos in our lives, which we now have to deal with but wouldn’t even be on the damn table if we’d just believed what we’d known from the start.

Hello. My name is Girl. And I am exactly like you.

The Girl has come to spin a yarn of truth from within this web of lies that we call life. This is a naked tale of folly, surrender, greed, lust, and cheeky disregard of all that is righteous and pure, with an evolutionary dash of pious morality sprinkled throughout; in vain attempt to satisfy the balance of the counter-balance scale which so harshly judges our counterculture.

Or our counter-counterculture, depending on who we are being today.

Thanks to “The Fleetwood Mac School of Spawn-Rearing,” from which my parents graduated with honours, I am acutely aware of the following realities of adulthood:

A) That I should always be “shacking up” and “packing up.” In other words, I should always, always, always, “go my own way.”

B) That it is completely fair that I might, in one moment, be “like a cat in the dark” and the next I might very well be “the darkness.”

C) That it is not mere fancy to genuinely believe that I am absolutely, “just a wish” and am, in fact, a “Gypsy.”

You see, my parents hath spun me these tales a great many times, and I’ve no cause, reasonable or otherwise, to question such plausible and obvious truths.

So, “Thanks, Stevie, Lindsey and Christine McVie!”

With morals and values like these at the helm, there is absolutely no chance that my generation will ever fall off course.

No damn way.

Still, I must explore the possibility that this may not be the plight of my generation, as a whole.

To be sure, some of us were equipped with a highly effective ‘internal distillation device’, right?

You know, that super-useful tool that enables its user to separate the fanciful pieces of cocaine-induced lyrical content, from a bona fide, sensible, ‘life-plan.’

Sadly, some were not given such advantages.

I believe myself to be a ranking member of the latter group.

On the up side, I got a bitchin’ first name out of the deal.

My search continues. If you need me, I’ll be somewhere in the desert, ruling my life “like a fine skylark,” when “the sky is starless.”

Hello. My name is Girl. And I am exactly like you.

These are ruminations from the abyss.

This is but one tale, one example plucked from millions of possible tales that lurk within this unorthodox faction of the Earth’s populace.

It is a metaphorical microcosm within the macrocosm.

We are the creators of the template.

We are the authors of the doctrine being written from the trenches.

“Who cares?” you ask, “Is this not the responsibility of each generation? This task of rising as one, unified in the quest to mold the rules to our desired specifications and revolutionize the status quo?”

And you would be justified in this query…for this task, in and of itself, is not unique.

Our disparity, our burden, if you will, is that this amendment of propriety and expectations, was not our idea.

It was their idea. Their dream. Their displaced and malnourished concept, laid to rest on the shoulders of their kin for implementation unto a world unready to accept this gift.

The puppet masters gave us life, and saw to it that we grew strong, while programming our feeble minds with the propaganda of this Liberal Mafia that they’d dreamt up.

They were the Capos and we, the low-ranking foot Soldiers…but we knew that if we were loyal and enterprising, the worlds into which we would be initiated, would challenge all that had ever been, and our efforts could give rise to an un-restrictive, peaceful and non-judgmental Utopia.

We were taught that there was Virtue in Selfishness, that ‘settling’ was for Pilgrims, and that ‘commitment’ was only for pussies or the certifiably insane.

We set about our travels to spread the groundbreaking word, bolstered by the prose of Miller, Bukowski, Rand and the good Dr. Gonzo.

We smoked joints rolled with the finest cannabis, while we laughed in the face in of failure.

But one day, we looked around us and saw no real ‘breaking of ground.’

We got scared.

We glimpsed the proverbial Looking Glass and we saw ourselves for what we were: a group of self-important, pompous, hemp wearing assholes, in desperate need of highlights and a job.

So we threw out our Phish CD’s, watched a few episodes of “Friends” on TV, and were magically transformed into publicists and attorney’s and other such nonsense.

We became all that we’d been taught to abhor.

Then we meet the Others.

The Others look like us and talk like us, and do not appear repulsed by the anti-societal rants which we still practice aloud from time to time.

Though perhaps these Others hadn’t been as militant in the ‘freedom fight’ as we had been, they were kind and good and it seemed that they suited us well.

We even found ourselves enjoying this Brave New World of brunch and Broadway Musicals.

Fuck Free Love!

I want a Condo with a view!

So, we float along the River of Bliss, buying duvets and pillow shams, praying that this whole scenario isn’t a sham, all the while shaming ourselves for even allowing the thought that it could be.

Suddenly many months have passed and the disquieting voice of the wanderlust within has not yet been silenced, and we are petrified that it may necessitate some tending to.

We decide to assess our surroundings.

We dust off our oh-so-familiar anti-societal rants. The ones that charmed the shit out of our Others a couple of years back, and we begin inserting these ideas into our everyday conversations.

But the years have robbed the words of their youthful exuberance, and the Others are now the opposite of ‘charmed’, instead they are openly dismissive of the notions we’ve posited, which leaves us feeling misunderstood and alone.

We console ourselves as the simpletons do…

We buy some new shoes and a bag.

But when we arrive home and look at our purchases, we realize that the ‘shoes’ were made for running and the ‘bag’ is actually a suitcase.

We gaze around the lives we’ve built and are gobsmacked by the reality that none of it matters a bit.

It could all go away…vanish without a trace and in the end it is only “the Gypsy that remains.”

Hello. My name is Girl. And I am exactly like you.

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A Gift for You. With Love from Girl…

Posted on August 20, 2009

Thank God for Nomads

Thank God for Nomads

His writing will inspire your guts to relocate to the filthy city cement below.

You will then stare helplessly as they writhe and thrash about in the muck.

His tales will tear your heart from your being, leaving a gaping, vacant chasm in your chest.

And then you will thank me for the introduction.

www.nomadjunkie.com

(You’re Welcome)

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The One I Might Never Be…

Posted on August 18, 2009

Possibility Lies Within...

Possibility Lies Within...

I would very much like to be considered a “woman of letters.”

It is a most egregious atrocity that this art form, this art of the hand writ epistle, has gone the way of human-to-human meetings and deep breaths…now almost extinct.

Merely a memory now (nearly)…

A delicate flame from a space in time which is no longer, soon to be permanently extinguished by the careless and regrettable gusty wind of ‘immediacy.’

Letters were beautiful.

So many facets…

So many elements, all brimming with analytical possibility.

The paper, the ink, the penmanship, the style, the wording, and the subtext

(how I love subtext)

All fodder for exam.

But like most forms of expression, letter writing is most rewarding when reciprocated.

I should think it frustrating to continually pen crafty missives, never to hear worthy rejoinder.

I’d certainly expect a reply heavily laden with equal amounts of minutiae and comparable levels of intellect as I have put forth.

This seems to be something of a fool’s errand.

Expectations and such…

Besides, my handwriting is sloppy.

And when it isn’t, it is only because I am trying too hard (always visually evident)

I fear both the ‘trying too hard’ or the ‘sloppiness’ would greatly detract from the mystique of the scented paper in the linen envelope and monogrammed wax seal I’d affix to the front…

Sadly, I may never be known as a “woman of letters.”

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