You grinding silly machine. Daedalus couldn't have done it better, with all the trappings and nautilus, isinglass and honey. They swish, slap and stop. The borders are all water, and not the kind you'd swim in unless there were no better options. A man could stop and think in a town like New York City. A quick fish in the pocket and a sulpherous match to create just a little bit of smoke to go with all those mirrors. The beautiful witches on the train asked me what I thought of Spain. I told them, "Romantica." They asked me if I were a writer, of all things. I told them no one paid me for it.
"Oh, they will," she assured me. She smiled at me like I was welcome. Then I knew my stop, the stop that wasn't actually mine was up. Zip zip zip and the Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis. Like I had any idea what the hell she was on about. My accents and language flipped through their rolly dexters and I emerged in the belly of NYU. Rich girls and their flimsy accents. Can't shatter a glass with that, love, I'd leave it alone.
Mario handed me a book. We were talking about cryptography. I professed to be a natural cryptographer, just waiting for my turn at the NSA. I'd show those stiffs a thing or two. In the meantime, the challenge was to decipher what psych patients had claimed was alien divination, the scrivening through an ethereal link to another being. Oh, no... this is not a new idea. Enochian and many before it. For as long as a man couldn't read another's handwriting he'd have imagined magic.
Babylon pissed off god because who wants neighbors. Good fences make good neighbors and haute temptation of the wrath of gods is always a fool's errand. Still, the towers they construct today, the satellites and fabled men on the moon are allowed? Please reconcile that for me, religions. Because as it stands, evidence seems to indicate that doesn't end well. I'm not suggesting we go find a nice cave and a club, but what changed? Maybe there is an answer to that.
So I flipped through the 8.5x11 inch pages, neatly bound and gramatically tidy. Mario wrote about where he saw the insane modelling their "alien writing" after experienced, seen, or naturally imagined scripts. I learned about alphabetic languages (this one), syllabic languages (blends of consonants and letters, this could be slapped on a few languages), and idyllic languages, where he meant by that strange word the ideographics of the Far East. He was Italian, after all. Cut him a break.
I tried for all my eyes would pour onto those pages to make heads or tails, but they were rarely or never in their original context. With no clues, like geography, life experience, or mental state they were a cold case. Still, I tried and I tried. Do you know what I saw? I saw that he was probably right and while the insane do some fascinating things that only a madman would attempt to make heads or tails of them. Maybe it was then that I decided to give it a go.
In NYC the "words of the prophets are" written well beyond "the subway walls and tenement halls". If those children could write on the moon, they surely would. Speaking of which, I decided the best way to do so would be to charge the moon with some sort of expiring photofluorescent matter that had a quick half life. Who the hell wants to look up into the sky and see the bat signal forever? Not I.
The living children in NYC bounce along and conduct the great orchestra with waving hands and furrowed brows. The old give up and in to fear and chaos. They curse and spit and beg. They become bent and perpetually look down. "I am not really afraid," I told the wild eyed girl on the bus. Everyone wanted to help me on that bus in Brooklyn but I didn't express any problem. I was just wearing a nice suit and I think they wanted to know why. I shouted the only Yoruba I know, a salutation and they quieted the fuck up.
Soon enough I met a girl studying the bible and asked to use her phone. If someone's nose is in the Christian bible, it will be hard for them to look up and tell me to go fuck myself. I told her to read Hebrews 13:1. She thanked me and then the dark New Jersey night fell. I'll be back, I thought to myself. Whether I want to or not.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Nearly
"Nearly" only counts in horseshoes, handgrenades, and h-bombs. Let's leave such dickery alone. Too much consideration of your penile endowment shrinks your constitution. Constitution is what keeps the old raft afloat. Tethers and twigs, bamboo and faith. You can't drown as long as you make preparation for what could happen and then leave it to god and nature. Nanu and I were laying on a sofa once, young and fresh with our legs tangled together in a rope of dark skinned affection. We were laughing hysterically that we couldn't die. We were young, after all, and the young don't die. My life was never easy, even when I took it lightly, and I remember telling her that there was a chance that we -could- die, but then "so what?" I told her that dead isn't so bad in so many words. The beautiful girl that she was once rode me on an electric fan. Weird and witchly ways they were. Like nature's orchestra allowing the resonance, the harmonic, the mathematical perfection indulge in itself. When I heard that she died nearly instantly my eye sparkled. Not out of joy, but with an amorous reverence to divinity and her ways.
A man told me, "Pride isn't poisonous. It won't kill you to swallow it." He also told me, "Who is worse off: the fool or the one arguing with a fool." Wise words from that old cadger. I'm presently breaking up with my girlfriend, Ramona. In many ways she's perfect for me. Somehow I'm unsatisfied. She's a lawyer and sees the world through lenses with arbitrary lines and codes and judgements. I am a creator, a levitator, an actor and a lover. She mocks me and has sabotaged my therapy by calling my "magical thinking" childlike and sick. To me, the world is sick enough and my reaction and ways are absolutely natural. Sid once told me that everything we know is natural, or it wouldn't be. He had his sinister snicker rolling around and his tongue nearly stretched out and handed that one to me. It flipped my world like those glasses that you get used to after a few hours or days. Then when you take them off, right side up is upside down.
Relativity is real. Contrast is real. High thread count sheets are my shangri-la. I don't know a lot, but I can hide in libraries and books, between legs and sheets. The dreams a dreamer dreams. The music that mates my nights and days. The shame that doesn't come off in the shower no matter if I sing, "It ain't no sin to take off my skin and dance around in my bones." Those albatross are ridden with pain and I'll have no more of them, thanks. They told me when I was just a boy that I was special. They didn't tell me I was a god, demigod, psychopomp or prophet. They just told me I was special. When I compete, I pray for the beauty of my adversaries. In many ways I'm a good Christian boy. A manchild of American penance. Don't ask me to whip myself though, I'll likely spit in your face or steal the silver from your kitchen. A man must prove his primate heritage or he might lose his way through the divine cosmos.
Do you encounter much those who want to correct you, that want to show you how to become them? I've had it with all that. I know how to live believe it or not. I've done it by hook or by crook for 30 years and I'm not giving up my ghost just yet. I've been struck down, spat upon, shat upon and slapped. I've been villainised, despised, adored, and deplored. One must remember those fine lines between madness and genius, love and hate, and sea and sky. Recently I had to make myself promise that I wouldn't stare at the sun. Then I was left for days with only night. It feels very much like god is trying desperately to tell me to do what my heart says. My heart doesn't lie. My head lies like a flying carpet. Al bisat al tayer.
The voices of angels and demons speak through the sick mens' tongues. Listen up and you may hear a thing or two. Old man Mario knew, and those before him. I'm no psychiatrist but I can tell you that those who go mad actually see a few things that aren't imagination or delusion. Sometimes the concrete and glass, the rubber and gas will drive a monkeyman mad. Then they want to shut his barbed and venemous speech down, cut him out of the picture, and at best medicate the magic out of him. What's left? Not much more than a monkey.
Priests and boxers know that a man can grow very strange and powerful if he doesn't relieve his sexual appetite. I've done my bids. There's something in women that make a man calm. Then they drive him insane. I'd swear if I've learned anything it's that the women I've known are the ones who would pluck the wings off a dragonfly and nurse him back to health. You've got to be careful when you engage in that ancient ritual, the battle and the sanctuary. Keep your head up, hold your tongue and your pen and don't touch yourself too much and you may find you know what I'm talking about. Manamanah.
I love you, old boy. Never underestimate life. Just when you think you've learned a thing or two you might find you've only got what you need. The rest is nearly masturbation.
A man told me, "Pride isn't poisonous. It won't kill you to swallow it." He also told me, "Who is worse off: the fool or the one arguing with a fool." Wise words from that old cadger. I'm presently breaking up with my girlfriend, Ramona. In many ways she's perfect for me. Somehow I'm unsatisfied. She's a lawyer and sees the world through lenses with arbitrary lines and codes and judgements. I am a creator, a levitator, an actor and a lover. She mocks me and has sabotaged my therapy by calling my "magical thinking" childlike and sick. To me, the world is sick enough and my reaction and ways are absolutely natural. Sid once told me that everything we know is natural, or it wouldn't be. He had his sinister snicker rolling around and his tongue nearly stretched out and handed that one to me. It flipped my world like those glasses that you get used to after a few hours or days. Then when you take them off, right side up is upside down.
Relativity is real. Contrast is real. High thread count sheets are my shangri-la. I don't know a lot, but I can hide in libraries and books, between legs and sheets. The dreams a dreamer dreams. The music that mates my nights and days. The shame that doesn't come off in the shower no matter if I sing, "It ain't no sin to take off my skin and dance around in my bones." Those albatross are ridden with pain and I'll have no more of them, thanks. They told me when I was just a boy that I was special. They didn't tell me I was a god, demigod, psychopomp or prophet. They just told me I was special. When I compete, I pray for the beauty of my adversaries. In many ways I'm a good Christian boy. A manchild of American penance. Don't ask me to whip myself though, I'll likely spit in your face or steal the silver from your kitchen. A man must prove his primate heritage or he might lose his way through the divine cosmos.
Do you encounter much those who want to correct you, that want to show you how to become them? I've had it with all that. I know how to live believe it or not. I've done it by hook or by crook for 30 years and I'm not giving up my ghost just yet. I've been struck down, spat upon, shat upon and slapped. I've been villainised, despised, adored, and deplored. One must remember those fine lines between madness and genius, love and hate, and sea and sky. Recently I had to make myself promise that I wouldn't stare at the sun. Then I was left for days with only night. It feels very much like god is trying desperately to tell me to do what my heart says. My heart doesn't lie. My head lies like a flying carpet. Al bisat al tayer.
The voices of angels and demons speak through the sick mens' tongues. Listen up and you may hear a thing or two. Old man Mario knew, and those before him. I'm no psychiatrist but I can tell you that those who go mad actually see a few things that aren't imagination or delusion. Sometimes the concrete and glass, the rubber and gas will drive a monkeyman mad. Then they want to shut his barbed and venemous speech down, cut him out of the picture, and at best medicate the magic out of him. What's left? Not much more than a monkey.
Priests and boxers know that a man can grow very strange and powerful if he doesn't relieve his sexual appetite. I've done my bids. There's something in women that make a man calm. Then they drive him insane. I'd swear if I've learned anything it's that the women I've known are the ones who would pluck the wings off a dragonfly and nurse him back to health. You've got to be careful when you engage in that ancient ritual, the battle and the sanctuary. Keep your head up, hold your tongue and your pen and don't touch yourself too much and you may find you know what I'm talking about. Manamanah.
I love you, old boy. Never underestimate life. Just when you think you've learned a thing or two you might find you've only got what you need. The rest is nearly masturbation.
Friday, March 6, 2009
Teeth
The dream was that his teeth were connected to a circuit board, which slid up into his palate and connected to contacts in his sinuses and were then relayed through the magic circuitry into his psyche. He tugged the loose tooth, loosening the one on either side with it, they were connected. He then courageously slid the board down, looked at it in the mirror, and then calmly slid it back up to where it should be.
He woke up and his teeth were where they should be. Tight and fast. Good. Where was he. Oh, the basement. There were legends of floods, but the floor was mighty dry. It was a fantastic morning, but he could only see out the little frame of a window at the ceiling. He flung the sheet aside and touched the floor with his feet. It was cold, that floor.
Clothes, he would need. There were some! Over there! Jumping up and down, he proved the "one leg at a time" proverb all wrong. "Alright then" he mumbled. Outside of the door, there were steps. He climbed them into the realm of the albino olympist and the biology student. They were nowhere to be seen. It was safe. The sink looked dangerous and he avoided it, but he needed water and a mirror. The floor was covered in a film he would do well to also avoid, but there was no convenient method presenting itself. Jack just touched as little as he could of the floor. The bathroom mirror showed him his regular teeth. There was not his toothbrush, but there were paper towels on top of the toilet that he could use. And so he did.
Outside was a minefield of dogshit. He navigated it as fast as he could, taunting error. The tennis court was a clean smooth sheet. The next challenge was the cliffs of bamboo. There were ravenous animals that could leap out at you if you slowed. No dog dared to shit on the cliffs of bamboo.
*Pop* and cool, usual strides on the street. They could be watching, after all. There were fences in the yards, but he knew that the train tracks left a path for those who needed to cross them. The young would not be defeated by little fences. It made him think of the Berlin wall, snowleg, and ultimately the Stasi. "Shh!" he calmed himself. The sports fields were empty. They were mostly devoid of animal poop, and he was young enough to be a student. All clear.
Soon enough, he were on Main St. to the right, Main St. ended over and down and past things he didn't need to see right now. To the left was a high wall on the bank and then further a cafe where folks with money ate. He walked calmly past the cafe.
"Hey! Where are you going, itsy!?" "Uhm, nowhere?" "Sit down!" "Ok."
He found himself in his orange soccer shirt at a table. No money. "What will you have?" "Water. With ice?"
Mario bought him a coffee and asked if there was anything else he wanted. "No, I think I'm Ok." Jim Tunis spun around in his seat. Jack looked up at the sky. Everything swam. The dialogue was random and antagonistic. It became easier and laughing. Everyone seemed drunk on spring air. They cited their associations and until they were dead and pinned down and on display, like butterflies in a museum, they were too wild to catch. It was like the dead took a holiday and let the living breathe.
Jack said, "I had a dream about my teeth last night. I wonder what it means."
Mario smiled and said, "Ut oh. What happened?"
"Well, some were loose. Does that mean anything?"
"Well, sometimes teeth represent control over things."
"What things?"
"Well, your life."
"Yeah, well I slid the teeth down and then I saw that they were connected to a circuit board and then I slid them back up. What does that mean?"
"Ask yourself."
Itsy touched his crazy teeth. They were there. What could he use them for? Cutting fishing line, biting ice, flicking with his tongue, smiling. Well, they were still there. He decided he was ok then.
"Ok then."
He woke up and his teeth were where they should be. Tight and fast. Good. Where was he. Oh, the basement. There were legends of floods, but the floor was mighty dry. It was a fantastic morning, but he could only see out the little frame of a window at the ceiling. He flung the sheet aside and touched the floor with his feet. It was cold, that floor.
Clothes, he would need. There were some! Over there! Jumping up and down, he proved the "one leg at a time" proverb all wrong. "Alright then" he mumbled. Outside of the door, there were steps. He climbed them into the realm of the albino olympist and the biology student. They were nowhere to be seen. It was safe. The sink looked dangerous and he avoided it, but he needed water and a mirror. The floor was covered in a film he would do well to also avoid, but there was no convenient method presenting itself. Jack just touched as little as he could of the floor. The bathroom mirror showed him his regular teeth. There was not his toothbrush, but there were paper towels on top of the toilet that he could use. And so he did.
Outside was a minefield of dogshit. He navigated it as fast as he could, taunting error. The tennis court was a clean smooth sheet. The next challenge was the cliffs of bamboo. There were ravenous animals that could leap out at you if you slowed. No dog dared to shit on the cliffs of bamboo.
*Pop* and cool, usual strides on the street. They could be watching, after all. There were fences in the yards, but he knew that the train tracks left a path for those who needed to cross them. The young would not be defeated by little fences. It made him think of the Berlin wall, snowleg, and ultimately the Stasi. "Shh!" he calmed himself. The sports fields were empty. They were mostly devoid of animal poop, and he was young enough to be a student. All clear.
Soon enough, he were on Main St. to the right, Main St. ended over and down and past things he didn't need to see right now. To the left was a high wall on the bank and then further a cafe where folks with money ate. He walked calmly past the cafe.
"Hey! Where are you going, itsy!?" "Uhm, nowhere?" "Sit down!" "Ok."
He found himself in his orange soccer shirt at a table. No money. "What will you have?" "Water. With ice?"
Mario bought him a coffee and asked if there was anything else he wanted. "No, I think I'm Ok." Jim Tunis spun around in his seat. Jack looked up at the sky. Everything swam. The dialogue was random and antagonistic. It became easier and laughing. Everyone seemed drunk on spring air. They cited their associations and until they were dead and pinned down and on display, like butterflies in a museum, they were too wild to catch. It was like the dead took a holiday and let the living breathe.
Jack said, "I had a dream about my teeth last night. I wonder what it means."
Mario smiled and said, "Ut oh. What happened?"
"Well, some were loose. Does that mean anything?"
"Well, sometimes teeth represent control over things."
"What things?"
"Well, your life."
"Yeah, well I slid the teeth down and then I saw that they were connected to a circuit board and then I slid them back up. What does that mean?"
"Ask yourself."
Itsy touched his crazy teeth. They were there. What could he use them for? Cutting fishing line, biting ice, flicking with his tongue, smiling. Well, they were still there. He decided he was ok then.
"Ok then."
You're not crazy. You're not.
1 Mar 2009 07:08
I'm getting a veeerrrryyy Zpolarly resonance. I can's carry thish mosherfasher FAST-> GOD BBAANNGG!!!€€€
267-VVVVVV********&&&&&&&### (cough) ###VVVVVV! (and V is six, dig?)
I'm getting a veeerrrryyy Zpolarly resonance. I can's carry thish mosherfasher FAST-> GOD BBAANNGG!!!€€€
267-VVVVVV********&&&&&&&### (cough) ###VVVVVV! (and V is six, dig?)
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
The mutants
"Bread and circuses", I was told is the meaning of Panis et Circenses or however it's spelled. I can't tell you who told me, and I can't tell you what it means. I -can- tell you that the song is like a carnival meal, lamb and oil and water and salt. That is all that I could tell you. Watch out for broken glass, fire, lightning, etc.
The South Sea Bubble. How can I address that...
"What?"
"Hmm."
The South Sea Bubble. How can I address that...
"What?"
"Hmm."
Sunday, March 1, 2009
God Bang!
07:20 <> whoa!
07:20 <> DEPARTURE!
07:20 <> not today. too wunderground.
07:21 <@*i*t*a*e> O.o
07:21 <> god bangy.
07:21 <> small step for a man. small step.
07:20 <> DEPARTURE!
07:20 <> not today. too wunderground.
07:21 <@*i*t*a*e> O.o
07:21 <> god bangy.
07:21 <> small step for a man. small step.
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