Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!(perverts)
FINALLY the day comes, I can have coke today, and have it I shall.
We have decided henceforth that one week is a long long time. And its been one week since you looked at me, opened up and said that you saw me.
Opening sequence, alarm bell wakes me up much in its original splendour to have cell phone blaring "Dont stand so close to me" first thing in the morning. Switch off cell phone, brush teeth with colgate (we have decided Crest is out of our league, you cant win em all), go downstairs to iron clothes and there it is breakfast....black, sinful, carbonated copulation.
Yes! I feel my sage-dom reprieve vanish, no abstination today, no derivatives, no one-night stand diet coke substitutes. Today is a real day.
And I am a real girl, no wooden legs. No wooden heart.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Beasty and the Freak.
I know not, what plagueth me.
Ok perhaps I do, or I have the capacity to know, assuming ofcourse that my faculties still function on some base, infinitely finite level. But I hope and pray, and so comes the day.
I do know what plagueth me at present, it is the inertia of the present. Yes ego and I have decided to coincide and agree on this point, we BOTH reiterate blatantly that our inertia is screwed up. Much screwed up, it is infernally rickety on my end and racketed on his. Boring on my end and boisterous on his, loud on his end and listless on mine. All jumbled evasively in one insurmountable package.
After note to fore-self: Ego prefers being called in the He, My Yang, to put it much mildly. Yang which despite having opposing genitalia is still as much of a wuss as Yin, so big whoopee. Affirmative Beasty and the freak.
I discover, now that I actually am a self-boted journalist-a, that I dont really fancy politics. I particularly abhor the rationed bull-shit bravado of it all. Opportune moment, you say conscience? Well I aim to please!
I discover also my base talent for stringing syllables togther is evaporating fast and forward because of the abject crap I need to pretend I care about. So yes! my immensely complexed, small fascile self....listens to shit loads of Johnny cash and Joni Mitchell.... for doses of spiritual intellectuality. Reads Buddhist mantras for enlightenment and perennially pretends that the primary reason for my innate lack of direction in my direction, is the fact that I seek adventure and pathos, and not just because im too hard pressed to get off my rather sizeable (sheesh) backside and bother.
Ok perhaps I do, or I have the capacity to know, assuming ofcourse that my faculties still function on some base, infinitely finite level. But I hope and pray, and so comes the day.
I do know what plagueth me at present, it is the inertia of the present. Yes ego and I have decided to coincide and agree on this point, we BOTH reiterate blatantly that our inertia is screwed up. Much screwed up, it is infernally rickety on my end and racketed on his. Boring on my end and boisterous on his, loud on his end and listless on mine. All jumbled evasively in one insurmountable package.
After note to fore-self: Ego prefers being called in the He, My Yang, to put it much mildly. Yang which despite having opposing genitalia is still as much of a wuss as Yin, so big whoopee. Affirmative Beasty and the freak.
I discover, now that I actually am a self-boted journalist-a, that I dont really fancy politics. I particularly abhor the rationed bull-shit bravado of it all. Opportune moment, you say conscience? Well I aim to please!
I discover also my base talent for stringing syllables togther is evaporating fast and forward because of the abject crap I need to pretend I care about. So yes! my immensely complexed, small fascile self....listens to shit loads of Johnny cash and Joni Mitchell.... for doses of spiritual intellectuality. Reads Buddhist mantras for enlightenment and perennially pretends that the primary reason for my innate lack of direction in my direction, is the fact that I seek adventure and pathos, and not just because im too hard pressed to get off my rather sizeable (sheesh) backside and bother.
Monday, May 29, 2006
Cases of Faces
I am drowning in the rather odd sensation that I am losing all my principles. Everything I ever stood for or atleast everything I hoped I stood for, flowing down the pits.Yet again, full circle back, on another quest to please. Only the parent has changed, its hard when your best friend needs to see you a certain way to 'see' you. Its' rather irksome, this sensation that I have begun taking 'appearances' seriously.
Not that im an extremist who believes in absolutely letting myself 'go to the dogs', but do I want the focus of my person being directed by my mirror and my weighing machine. No I dont! Regardless of what anyone says, I agree with being healthy, I agree with being normal. But beauty has really never topped my list.
I used to pride myself on never seeing faces, or clothes....really never noticing them. They were never important. My face was just my face and my body just my body. Just that, nothing more...a slightly chubby, short and naturally confused frame, like everything else about me. Somehow I never noticed my reflection critically, which is surprising considering I know how many women actually do spend painstaking hours infront of a mirror, trying to find solace in glass projections.
I always thought that aslong as I wore a smile, the flaws would fade, people respond to smiles...cheesy as it sounds.I can't stand being this way, trying to pretend I care in the least about my weight, fashion or faces. I thought in the last few years that my 'GREATEST' accomplishment was being ok with me, atleast the 'overt physicality' of me. Its hard when those closest to you trump on about how THAT is never enough and you try to go along the ride. Its more than hard, its suffocating.
When people told me I was ugly I said 'Ah well too bad, so what? I shall be smart'. Now people tell me 'Im pretty and if I only lost a little weight...' (apparently there are many 'ifs' that sentence can bring about) and I flinch, hoping that they could bother seeing something else, anything else. But it seems they dont.
My worst fear is that perhaps that really is 'all' people can see?
A pretty face.
Not that im an extremist who believes in absolutely letting myself 'go to the dogs', but do I want the focus of my person being directed by my mirror and my weighing machine. No I dont! Regardless of what anyone says, I agree with being healthy, I agree with being normal. But beauty has really never topped my list.
I used to pride myself on never seeing faces, or clothes....really never noticing them. They were never important. My face was just my face and my body just my body. Just that, nothing more...a slightly chubby, short and naturally confused frame, like everything else about me. Somehow I never noticed my reflection critically, which is surprising considering I know how many women actually do spend painstaking hours infront of a mirror, trying to find solace in glass projections.
I always thought that aslong as I wore a smile, the flaws would fade, people respond to smiles...cheesy as it sounds.I can't stand being this way, trying to pretend I care in the least about my weight, fashion or faces. I thought in the last few years that my 'GREATEST' accomplishment was being ok with me, atleast the 'overt physicality' of me. Its hard when those closest to you trump on about how THAT is never enough and you try to go along the ride. Its more than hard, its suffocating.
When people told me I was ugly I said 'Ah well too bad, so what? I shall be smart'. Now people tell me 'Im pretty and if I only lost a little weight...' (apparently there are many 'ifs' that sentence can bring about) and I flinch, hoping that they could bother seeing something else, anything else. But it seems they dont.
My worst fear is that perhaps that really is 'all' people can see?
A pretty face.
Sunday, May 28, 2006
Zzzzzzzz's for Zombie a la carte
Im just beginning to realise how empty life can be, when it seems its most full.
I think the greatest bane of my existence is structure,routine, the endless drudgery of 'knowing' exactly what will happen everyday. I truly marvel at people who enjoy this, who enjoy a 9-5 existence mapped out for them.
Not that I have really great adventures when im not structured, sheesh! but i can still plan incessantly and dream erroneously. I hate this steady setting in of my primal fears, seeping into my existence. Being ordinary, mundane, wasted. Too lazy to look forward, think forward or do anything in a 'forward' propelling motion.
Is it loneliness that heightens the feeling, or is it just the acknowledgement of the feeling itself? What is it with me?
Why is it that I know exactly what im capable of accomplishing, but somewhere in the middle of it all I lose all initiative. Wasted potential?
More like potential put aside in pursuit of nothing...because thats oh-so interesting to master.
I think the greatest bane of my existence is structure,routine, the endless drudgery of 'knowing' exactly what will happen everyday. I truly marvel at people who enjoy this, who enjoy a 9-5 existence mapped out for them.
Not that I have really great adventures when im not structured, sheesh! but i can still plan incessantly and dream erroneously. I hate this steady setting in of my primal fears, seeping into my existence. Being ordinary, mundane, wasted. Too lazy to look forward, think forward or do anything in a 'forward' propelling motion.
Is it loneliness that heightens the feeling, or is it just the acknowledgement of the feeling itself? What is it with me?
Why is it that I know exactly what im capable of accomplishing, but somewhere in the middle of it all I lose all initiative. Wasted potential?
More like potential put aside in pursuit of nothing...because thats oh-so interesting to master.
Sunday, May 21, 2006
The Master
I lurk in a sanguine corner, forever waiting for my moment. And I see it every day as it drives on by, waving at me, the ephemeral mocking smirk…
“You coming, child?”
“Tomorrow.”
Always tomorrow: closing time curfews, crisp notes locked in my cupboard for momentary placation, leather bound pages to pave escape routes on a roulette wheel for a lost imagination. Ridden and riding a highway to hell, always haunted, always hunted by a face. There it goes, Master, walking down death road durges in my prison cell cerebellum. Or is it me? Is it I who is locked away in your head?
A flea-bitten cell, sans light, cramped needles, rocks, nails, nuts and bolts. A Garbage can of conscience and goth comedy. Tied up on a string, Master, ready and waiting for your redemption, yours mind it, but I always return all my borrowings. This is our temple tale, dear Dear demon, this is our cross dear Dear Killer, yours at the door and mine on the floor.
We are the shoulder where loneliness comes to cry,
We are the tree where bluebirds come to die
The dark deserted lobby of a 666 doors
The tiny glass shard of morning that you broke over my skull
Master, I obey.
I swear that I am still trapped.
I swear that I am still haunted.
I swear that I still think thrice before I smile.
I swear that I am still alone.
Rest assured you have not lost. I’ll dance with you in a river, wearing an ice-storm disguise. I’ll bury my soul in a scrap-book, with mask photographs on the fleece of your lies. Your face remains the face of many fears. Your laugh remains the laugh of my freshly cut tears. Your very own breath of brandy and death is an intrepid sea of lost dances we never shared. So take this waltz dear Dear Master its been dying a life for years.
“You coming, child?”
“Tomorrow.”
Always tomorrow: closing time curfews, crisp notes locked in my cupboard for momentary placation, leather bound pages to pave escape routes on a roulette wheel for a lost imagination. Ridden and riding a highway to hell, always haunted, always hunted by a face. There it goes, Master, walking down death road durges in my prison cell cerebellum. Or is it me? Is it I who is locked away in your head?
A flea-bitten cell, sans light, cramped needles, rocks, nails, nuts and bolts. A Garbage can of conscience and goth comedy. Tied up on a string, Master, ready and waiting for your redemption, yours mind it, but I always return all my borrowings. This is our temple tale, dear Dear demon, this is our cross dear Dear Killer, yours at the door and mine on the floor.
We are the shoulder where loneliness comes to cry,
We are the tree where bluebirds come to die
The dark deserted lobby of a 666 doors
The tiny glass shard of morning that you broke over my skull
Master, I obey.
I swear that I am still trapped.
I swear that I am still haunted.
I swear that I still think thrice before I smile.
I swear that I am still alone.
Rest assured you have not lost. I’ll dance with you in a river, wearing an ice-storm disguise. I’ll bury my soul in a scrap-book, with mask photographs on the fleece of your lies. Your face remains the face of many fears. Your laugh remains the laugh of my freshly cut tears. Your very own breath of brandy and death is an intrepid sea of lost dances we never shared. So take this waltz dear Dear Master its been dying a life for years.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Mirror Mirror, how i fall.
I have recently had the much talked about, to-date-alien opportunity of venturing forth into a parallel sphere of existence. Having been vehemently driven by my paling complexion (which is ‘so’ not in the white ergo complimentary hue, rather the corpse bride draconian grey context) and over inhabitant eyebrows, to set foot in what ‘they’ call a ‘beauty’ parlour. ‘They’ being the inimitable, definitive THEM that I admit I judge so very harshly for having the time, patience and inclination to spend shit loads of money on ‘their’ faces. Yes! I realise that I am being much the Judy Judgerson here, but seriously how is it that women can sit in the oversized amputation devices they call parlour recliners and have a team of ‘miscreants’ morph them into putty? Moreover how is it that they keep going back for it.
Even the likes of “I” can comprehend, the monthly trim, customary threading, and oh-so very occasional facial…what I cannot comprehend is this parallel species of parlour ‘aunties’, an intrepid breed of Pakistani women, who devote pretty much ALL their energy and passion towards improving their quintessential reflections in the looking glass, still unfortunately, not to much avail. At least not ‘much’.
How can I relate this diatribe of utmost authenticity, because it has been years since I bothered to step into this inner sanctum of beastly beauty? (I know I use this one too much)…but venture forth I did. Let it be written: this was no paramount crossover, to the Dark Side just a momentary splurge, and Master Yoda shall excuse me my transgresses, for learned from the experience I have much.
Apparently the most chronic of pathos that plagues this sanctum is that of urban legendry. I have now experienced an enormous epiphany: no wait for it……………………..............................
…..Women Talk!
Jes jes I know, pot calling kettle… but I mean as in gossip like hell talk, talk about every bloody ass person on the planet talk. In my one hour in this not-so- sacred order, I had the privilege of being a non-confidential confidant to three ‘original’ urban legend characters, the legends being formed as the tale unfolded, each linking the three parlour maids (in the least illicit sense of the word) and their subsequent fiance’s, lovers and boyfriends to the other. This I mean literally folks! PM#1 who was engaged to hmm …He-Man by the sound of it (and putting it as mildly and lady likely as I possibly can) had apparently run off with a dwarf (basically a no-man, again by the ‘sound’ of it) and He Man meanwhile took up with PM# 2 who, yes you guessed it was PM# 1’s sister! Meanwhile PM# 3 who regrettably really wasn’t as interlinked, as I would have liked to add element to the vaudeville of it all, was having an affair with some client’s husband but loved to talk about the husband in unnecessary detail, so I thought she deserved mention for her overt enthusiasm. I now know much more about the un-gentleman like gentleman then I could ever have foreseen likely or necessary for that matter.
The most engrossing and passive-aggressively depressing element of this epic is the fact that the conversation was disturbingly casual, as I was zilched in the ‘said chair’ of beauty manufacturdom, trying oh-so desperately to capture just a drop of the former, just to make myself feel nice for a day (I admit, sadly, that I have these days) the tales were flowing through my presence like pesto!
Barring the machismo of the He-Menses and the dilapidated charms of the SheRa’s, it irked me incessantly that the clientele also joined in on the stories. TRULY! I am not brain farting (for once)! They sat there, finding the opportune moment to ‘finally’ bitch about …well …other aunties and their spouses and daughters and in laws, because apparently men are boring to bitch about. Hmm now that really may be true…But I maintain that the Parlour Maids were better story tellers, and technically they were the first ever to tell stories, if you’re into gospel.
Anyhow having paid with my already pitiful soul and my even more pitiful pay-check.... I made my way back home still wondering what happened to the original Parlour Maid and the Dwarf, did they give birth to seven children and live ever after?
Who cares! My elixir of ‘fair fairdom’ is intact, enhanced even, by the gruelling event. I get home, face my proverbial looking glass, do my “ Mirror Mirror on the wall, can I even manage, just a little, at all?”.
And there it is, the bloody bugger, a zit straight on the conk, Rudolf the dumb ass lone ranger!
Even the likes of “I” can comprehend, the monthly trim, customary threading, and oh-so very occasional facial…what I cannot comprehend is this parallel species of parlour ‘aunties’, an intrepid breed of Pakistani women, who devote pretty much ALL their energy and passion towards improving their quintessential reflections in the looking glass, still unfortunately, not to much avail. At least not ‘much’.
How can I relate this diatribe of utmost authenticity, because it has been years since I bothered to step into this inner sanctum of beastly beauty? (I know I use this one too much)…but venture forth I did. Let it be written: this was no paramount crossover, to the Dark Side just a momentary splurge, and Master Yoda shall excuse me my transgresses, for learned from the experience I have much.
Apparently the most chronic of pathos that plagues this sanctum is that of urban legendry. I have now experienced an enormous epiphany: no wait for it……………………..............................
…..Women Talk!
Jes jes I know, pot calling kettle… but I mean as in gossip like hell talk, talk about every bloody ass person on the planet talk. In my one hour in this not-so- sacred order, I had the privilege of being a non-confidential confidant to three ‘original’ urban legend characters, the legends being formed as the tale unfolded, each linking the three parlour maids (in the least illicit sense of the word) and their subsequent fiance’s, lovers and boyfriends to the other. This I mean literally folks! PM#1 who was engaged to hmm …He-Man by the sound of it (and putting it as mildly and lady likely as I possibly can) had apparently run off with a dwarf (basically a no-man, again by the ‘sound’ of it) and He Man meanwhile took up with PM# 2 who, yes you guessed it was PM# 1’s sister! Meanwhile PM# 3 who regrettably really wasn’t as interlinked, as I would have liked to add element to the vaudeville of it all, was having an affair with some client’s husband but loved to talk about the husband in unnecessary detail, so I thought she deserved mention for her overt enthusiasm. I now know much more about the un-gentleman like gentleman then I could ever have foreseen likely or necessary for that matter.
The most engrossing and passive-aggressively depressing element of this epic is the fact that the conversation was disturbingly casual, as I was zilched in the ‘said chair’ of beauty manufacturdom, trying oh-so desperately to capture just a drop of the former, just to make myself feel nice for a day (I admit, sadly, that I have these days) the tales were flowing through my presence like pesto!
Barring the machismo of the He-Menses and the dilapidated charms of the SheRa’s, it irked me incessantly that the clientele also joined in on the stories. TRULY! I am not brain farting (for once)! They sat there, finding the opportune moment to ‘finally’ bitch about …well …other aunties and their spouses and daughters and in laws, because apparently men are boring to bitch about. Hmm now that really may be true…But I maintain that the Parlour Maids were better story tellers, and technically they were the first ever to tell stories, if you’re into gospel.
Anyhow having paid with my already pitiful soul and my even more pitiful pay-check.... I made my way back home still wondering what happened to the original Parlour Maid and the Dwarf, did they give birth to seven children and live ever after?
Who cares! My elixir of ‘fair fairdom’ is intact, enhanced even, by the gruelling event. I get home, face my proverbial looking glass, do my “ Mirror Mirror on the wall, can I even manage, just a little, at all?”.
And there it is, the bloody bugger, a zit straight on the conk, Rudolf the dumb ass lone ranger!
Sunday, May 14, 2006
There are days, inspite of my being who I am, where there is no denying that I am alone.
The happy songs, the sodden smiles, the carefree banter with myself, writing, books, cartoons, nothing works.
I can't accept these days, they need to be phased out, ticked out of time and breathed out of my being, for if I accept them the bow shall break and the cradle fall.
A thin precipice, on some lost mountain, where I have so causally balanced myself, smile and joke in hand, shall shatter and I shall be just another goth morbid flake...who life struck out at the pier.
But those days still come, unabated by my warnings... I am 'one' lost soul swimming in a fish bowl, and today 'one' really is the loneliest number of all.
The happy songs, the sodden smiles, the carefree banter with myself, writing, books, cartoons, nothing works.
I can't accept these days, they need to be phased out, ticked out of time and breathed out of my being, for if I accept them the bow shall break and the cradle fall.
A thin precipice, on some lost mountain, where I have so causally balanced myself, smile and joke in hand, shall shatter and I shall be just another goth morbid flake...who life struck out at the pier.
But those days still come, unabated by my warnings... I am 'one' lost soul swimming in a fish bowl, and today 'one' really is the loneliest number of all.
Friday, May 12, 2006
Wishbone
Having launched a battalion of beauteous beasts against Zen Phantoms
Having finally perched myself on spindle-prick needles of Svengali summers
Cast my lot in Everlots and Neverlots of complacent corpses
I have sailed my brown skies
I have swam my blue grass
I have soared my pink seas
I have run my green flames
I hear my sights and smell my sounds of acid flavours and dis-harmony
All the while crying at my mothers' lost echoes...
Daughter dont ever grow a 'wishbone'
where a 'backbone' ought to be
Having finally perched myself on spindle-prick needles of Svengali summers
Cast my lot in Everlots and Neverlots of complacent corpses
I have sailed my brown skies
I have swam my blue grass
I have soared my pink seas
I have run my green flames
I hear my sights and smell my sounds of acid flavours and dis-harmony
All the while crying at my mothers' lost echoes...
Daughter dont ever grow a 'wishbone'
where a 'backbone' ought to be
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
My Date with God
'Hi God, forever no see.''
Yeah I've been busy.'
'I guess, you could have called.''
Hmmm. You know you're gaining weight, How many times have i told you Coke is bad for you. I didnt give you a body just so you could abuse it.
''I forgot i already have a boyfriend, i think i need to go. Although i'll call before D day, put in a good word for myself''
Hmm it was something i said.
Having just stormed out on Him I realize mid stride that I may just have walked out on the only entity capable of making me lose 30 pounds, get an entire off-the-rack Minolo line AND get into Grad school with one tiny ‘Bibbity Bobbity Boo’. Crap!
“Aah you’re still here! I think I over reacted”
Well it’s not like I didn’t know you were going to come back. Plus it a no on the list, I don’t mess with ‘free will’…as you guys have finally figured out.
“But you could?”
Where’s the fun in that?
“Sigh~”
DON’T pout, and stop slouching!
Hmm frowns don’t really work for you either, I never gave you the eyebrows to pull it off, they kind of split off at a tangent. So stop that too.
“Is this what you do on all your dates?”
Well I’m seldom bored enough to consent to this, but with all the dish I’ve been throwing at you guys lately, I decided to lay low for a bit.
“So I’m the laying low?”
Don’t take it personally, kiddo.
“Hmm, God…I kind of have a question.”
Oh great, another interview, see THIS is why I don’t date! Fine!!
“Will I like burn at the stake or something for writing about this?”
Oh I don’t do the whole ‘stake burning’ thing anymore, it’s more fine seasoning and cooked on a medium flame. It’s all about the gentle flame this season. I know… OPRAH’s my freebie show.
“Oh! So will I be baked on a gentle flame? Cause that would be really unfair, I mean…considering that this is my First alter-ego speaking and that one is really tight with the conscience and both of them kinda’ get signals from a muse, so ‘technically’ you’re at all 6 ends of this conversation, if you bring in the shadow and Tink and ‘all that Jazz’”
For the record kiddo ‘All that Jazz’ is out. And nope I won’t bake you yet, I know the fine print, I wrote it. So go ahead. I know you have others; you all just wait for this jive don’t you? ‘If I just get ‘one’ chance to talk to God I’ll ask Him’….blah blah blah.
“Yeah well, Ok, umm how lonely is it at the Top?”
Don’t push it kid.
This date isn’t really going to work for me anyway and it would go better for you if you stuck with the small stuff.
“Why won’t it work? I mean besides the whole ‘you created me’ thing?”
Well personally I like blondes. Nicole Kidman was a nice piece of work and I DO say so myself. One of my better pieces.
“So you ARE officially male! Why don’t I look like her?”
That’s too easy.
“Ok, keep it small. Hmm. Why are men jerks?”
That’s too big, narrow it down.
“Ok why do most men tell you they like smart women, ones’ who think and then run after the big-boobed bimbos?”
Firstly DON’T generalize, I expected better of you. And to answer your question it’s not so much that the women with the big boobs are dumb, it’s just … the larger their boobs the less intelligent the men become. So don’t take it personally.
“Hmm… Ok why is it ‘so’ bloody important to be pretty, when ‘technically’ we cant really do much with what you gave us, and seriously you didn’t really believe in an ‘equal’ distribution of assets.”
Ok… unfortunately I was actually trying to see how the whole ‘inner beauty” thing will play out, and even I have pretty much resigned myself to being bored on that account. If I made an army of look-alikes the whole point of the exercise would be lost.
“Aha! And what is the point of the exercise”
Hmph, well among MANY othes, so don’t try to ‘spin’ this any other way… I needed something to do~ I am the ‘CREATOR’, so I created!
“So we really are puppets?”
No sweetheart! Puppets aren’t predictable.
‘Hmph!”
Don’t. Pout.
“Oh fine! Ok why religion, you know I had to ask this one, with my set of troubles?”
Yeah well I really did mean for that one to be simple, but well what can you do.
‘Simple how?”
Oh come on! They all say the same thing! It was so obvious... you guys were supposed to listen to the ‘sameness’. But you just seem so taken with conflict and I didn’t want to have to think up new crap for this all the time. Religion kinda’ evolved for every occasion.
“Isn’t that mean?”
Well I see why you think so, but seriously those of you who wanted to find me always managed and the others just became more interesting.
“Oooh Oooh, is Satan real?”
Yeah.
“That’s it”
Yes. He’s real, He isn’t really a peach and he’s kinda’ been getting on my nerves for a while now. Better?
“How much is ‘a while’?
Pretty much …’ a while’ after I made him.
"So… ‘long’ then?"
Long.
“So should I be scared of him, like all the time and throw rocks and stuff?”
You’re on a date with me, I’d say you’re doing pretty good so far.
“Thanks, But you know they say that when we talk to you we’re praying and when you talk to us ‘we’re schizophrenic”
‘You’ answer me this, who do you think ‘they’ are?
"The…’them’ everyone ‘but’ us."
And right now I’m here and you’re here, so why do ‘they’ matter?
"Hmm…you’re good at this".
I did write the Ten Commandments. I know they were kinda’ cryptic and shit, but seriously those dumb asses gave me one hell of a run.
“For the record, why’d you tell old Mo’ to take his shoes off?”
Huh?
“Well I mean the guy finally got the chance to talk to you, and you know, have it be all ‘legit’ and shit, go down in the books and all…and the first thing you say is “ Take your shoes off”?!
Well they were dirty.
“Come on!”
Ok fine, I didn’t want him to get all cocky, cause I agreed to the meet. So I was just getting him in the right frame of mind.
“As in, scared as hell?”
No! As in… respectful.
‘Oh! I’m losing major points on that one aren’t I?’
Not really, times have changed, I pretty much need to talk rap for kids in these days. Plus, you’re schizophrenic.
“Oh, does that get me off the hook?”
No.
‘Hmm. Ok, do you really love us?”
You’re asking?
“Well yeah, now don’t get mad, ‘cause I’ve heard you have one hell of a temper and…oops”
No worries my temper is pretty much how Hell came about.
“Sheesh! But anyway, I mean, sometimes the crap just gets too bad”
Yeah. And that’s pretty much when you bother to talk.
‘Hmmm I guess. But isn’t that depressing, having to put us through ….
Damn! I can’t come up with anything else!
Say it …HELL…
“…Ok! Having to put us through hell, just so we talk to you”
Yeah well, I guess that answers your question.
“Oh.”
“Yeah it does”
Happy?
“I guess.”
You guess?!
“No, I Am happy, it was just a big question.”
“You know what God, you’re pretty cool.”
No shit!
“I think this could work.”
Well good, cause I’m off. You guys still run on a clock.
“You know this was a pretty good date. Sure you didn’t buy me a Coke, but still not too shabby. You’re pretty hot in a cool sort of way”
Mmhmm.
You need to lose weight.
Yeah I've been busy.'
'I guess, you could have called.''
Hmmm. You know you're gaining weight, How many times have i told you Coke is bad for you. I didnt give you a body just so you could abuse it.
''I forgot i already have a boyfriend, i think i need to go. Although i'll call before D day, put in a good word for myself''
Hmm it was something i said.
Having just stormed out on Him I realize mid stride that I may just have walked out on the only entity capable of making me lose 30 pounds, get an entire off-the-rack Minolo line AND get into Grad school with one tiny ‘Bibbity Bobbity Boo’. Crap!
“Aah you’re still here! I think I over reacted”
Well it’s not like I didn’t know you were going to come back. Plus it a no on the list, I don’t mess with ‘free will’…as you guys have finally figured out.
“But you could?”
Where’s the fun in that?
“Sigh~”
DON’T pout, and stop slouching!
Hmm frowns don’t really work for you either, I never gave you the eyebrows to pull it off, they kind of split off at a tangent. So stop that too.
“Is this what you do on all your dates?”
Well I’m seldom bored enough to consent to this, but with all the dish I’ve been throwing at you guys lately, I decided to lay low for a bit.
“So I’m the laying low?”
Don’t take it personally, kiddo.
“Hmm, God…I kind of have a question.”
Oh great, another interview, see THIS is why I don’t date! Fine!!
“Will I like burn at the stake or something for writing about this?”
Oh I don’t do the whole ‘stake burning’ thing anymore, it’s more fine seasoning and cooked on a medium flame. It’s all about the gentle flame this season. I know… OPRAH’s my freebie show.
“Oh! So will I be baked on a gentle flame? Cause that would be really unfair, I mean…considering that this is my First alter-ego speaking and that one is really tight with the conscience and both of them kinda’ get signals from a muse, so ‘technically’ you’re at all 6 ends of this conversation, if you bring in the shadow and Tink and ‘all that Jazz’”
For the record kiddo ‘All that Jazz’ is out. And nope I won’t bake you yet, I know the fine print, I wrote it. So go ahead. I know you have others; you all just wait for this jive don’t you? ‘If I just get ‘one’ chance to talk to God I’ll ask Him’….blah blah blah.
“Yeah well, Ok, umm how lonely is it at the Top?”
Don’t push it kid.
This date isn’t really going to work for me anyway and it would go better for you if you stuck with the small stuff.
“Why won’t it work? I mean besides the whole ‘you created me’ thing?”
Well personally I like blondes. Nicole Kidman was a nice piece of work and I DO say so myself. One of my better pieces.
“So you ARE officially male! Why don’t I look like her?”
That’s too easy.
“Ok, keep it small. Hmm. Why are men jerks?”
That’s too big, narrow it down.
“Ok why do most men tell you they like smart women, ones’ who think and then run after the big-boobed bimbos?”
Firstly DON’T generalize, I expected better of you. And to answer your question it’s not so much that the women with the big boobs are dumb, it’s just … the larger their boobs the less intelligent the men become. So don’t take it personally.
“Hmm… Ok why is it ‘so’ bloody important to be pretty, when ‘technically’ we cant really do much with what you gave us, and seriously you didn’t really believe in an ‘equal’ distribution of assets.”
Ok… unfortunately I was actually trying to see how the whole ‘inner beauty” thing will play out, and even I have pretty much resigned myself to being bored on that account. If I made an army of look-alikes the whole point of the exercise would be lost.
“Aha! And what is the point of the exercise”
Hmph, well among MANY othes, so don’t try to ‘spin’ this any other way… I needed something to do~ I am the ‘CREATOR’, so I created!
“So we really are puppets?”
No sweetheart! Puppets aren’t predictable.
‘Hmph!”
Don’t. Pout.
“Oh fine! Ok why religion, you know I had to ask this one, with my set of troubles?”
Yeah well I really did mean for that one to be simple, but well what can you do.
‘Simple how?”
Oh come on! They all say the same thing! It was so obvious... you guys were supposed to listen to the ‘sameness’. But you just seem so taken with conflict and I didn’t want to have to think up new crap for this all the time. Religion kinda’ evolved for every occasion.
“Isn’t that mean?”
Well I see why you think so, but seriously those of you who wanted to find me always managed and the others just became more interesting.
“Oooh Oooh, is Satan real?”
Yeah.
“That’s it”
Yes. He’s real, He isn’t really a peach and he’s kinda’ been getting on my nerves for a while now. Better?
“How much is ‘a while’?
Pretty much …’ a while’ after I made him.
"So… ‘long’ then?"
Long.
“So should I be scared of him, like all the time and throw rocks and stuff?”
You’re on a date with me, I’d say you’re doing pretty good so far.
“Thanks, But you know they say that when we talk to you we’re praying and when you talk to us ‘we’re schizophrenic”
‘You’ answer me this, who do you think ‘they’ are?
"The…’them’ everyone ‘but’ us."
And right now I’m here and you’re here, so why do ‘they’ matter?
"Hmm…you’re good at this".
I did write the Ten Commandments. I know they were kinda’ cryptic and shit, but seriously those dumb asses gave me one hell of a run.
“For the record, why’d you tell old Mo’ to take his shoes off?”
Huh?
“Well I mean the guy finally got the chance to talk to you, and you know, have it be all ‘legit’ and shit, go down in the books and all…and the first thing you say is “ Take your shoes off”?!
Well they were dirty.
“Come on!”
Ok fine, I didn’t want him to get all cocky, cause I agreed to the meet. So I was just getting him in the right frame of mind.
“As in, scared as hell?”
No! As in… respectful.
‘Oh! I’m losing major points on that one aren’t I?’
Not really, times have changed, I pretty much need to talk rap for kids in these days. Plus, you’re schizophrenic.
“Oh, does that get me off the hook?”
No.
‘Hmm. Ok, do you really love us?”
You’re asking?
“Well yeah, now don’t get mad, ‘cause I’ve heard you have one hell of a temper and…oops”
No worries my temper is pretty much how Hell came about.
“Sheesh! But anyway, I mean, sometimes the crap just gets too bad”
Yeah. And that’s pretty much when you bother to talk.
‘Hmmm I guess. But isn’t that depressing, having to put us through ….
Damn! I can’t come up with anything else!
Say it …HELL…
“…Ok! Having to put us through hell, just so we talk to you”
Yeah well, I guess that answers your question.
“Oh.”
“Yeah it does”
Happy?
“I guess.”
You guess?!
“No, I Am happy, it was just a big question.”
“You know what God, you’re pretty cool.”
No shit!
“I think this could work.”
Well good, cause I’m off. You guys still run on a clock.
“You know this was a pretty good date. Sure you didn’t buy me a Coke, but still not too shabby. You’re pretty hot in a cool sort of way”
Mmhmm.
You need to lose weight.
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
The Husk
One day to bring one colossal moment. A moment when you are eclipsed for a mere second into a parallel frame of focus, forced irrevocably to recognize the apathy of the other. Judgment Day in all its inordinate ‘lack’ of splendor.
You roll down your car window to passively stare at a wafer-thin husk of ‘once’ mortal proportions, flailing on the baking asphalt. Limbless, listless, restless; screaming and shrieking desperately trying to dodge between the dual stream of trapping traffic. Fruitlessly striving to preserve a life which both he and you are fully aware, is probably better off lost.
Just once lucid glance when your eyes, conveniently masked in black plastic and glitter panache, collide with his. The eighty-something, bag of bones, trying to maneuver his very existence with the rhythmic rotating of his palms. Shaking and shivering like a rabid dog in the middle of a cross-section current. Just the shocking paralysis of realization. The sheer enormity of parallels.
‘You’ who rolled down your window to cool off and ‘he’ who dances on the baked tarp to survive. Still you continue to placidly stare at the beggar, so plagued with his perils that he forgot to beg. Forgot to cook up a story, forgot to send you a wish of happiness and a good future, because he was too busy trying to work on juggling his own.
For once the guilt ‘does’ get the better of you, it crashes into your being, so fervently that you are forced to act. This is ‘your’ beggar, the one who is meant to telepathically channel some lost part of your humanity, even if it’s only for a passing second. And so you heed the call, you help the Husk.
Or so you repeatedly tell yourself, to crop conscience. You stop the car and help him to the shade, dish out whatever it is you consider an exorbitant amount for the likes of him and pat yourself on the back for being human. All the while the Husk cringes away from you, blaming you with his innate ‘being’ for being you. He shirks and shrinks from your touch, believing you to be just another jackal…only there to rip out yet another one of his rotting limbs.
You drive away, you drive on. Crying and placating yourself for being ‘genuine’. Doing all you could. For this guilt too shall pass.
It cannot be helped.
You go home, take an aspirin so you ‘don’t feel’ the headache, you take a shower so you ‘don’t feel’ the dirt, you take a nap so you ‘don’t feel’ depressed, you write an article so you ‘don’t feel’ shallow, you order Mc Donald’s so you ‘don’t feel’ hungry, you drink Coke so you ‘don’t feel’ thirsty, you switch on the AC (full blast) so you ‘don’t feel’ hot.
You do all you can, so you ‘don’t’ feel.
Because feeling means admitting you CAN.
Then you force yourself to smile sitting at your desk contemplating, praying, pretending to be ‘one’ with God in the moment. You look at the tack board on your desk, and you read.
“Life is a limousine. There’s a front seat and a backseat. And a window in between”.
A Window.
No Door.
You roll down your car window to passively stare at a wafer-thin husk of ‘once’ mortal proportions, flailing on the baking asphalt. Limbless, listless, restless; screaming and shrieking desperately trying to dodge between the dual stream of trapping traffic. Fruitlessly striving to preserve a life which both he and you are fully aware, is probably better off lost.
Just once lucid glance when your eyes, conveniently masked in black plastic and glitter panache, collide with his. The eighty-something, bag of bones, trying to maneuver his very existence with the rhythmic rotating of his palms. Shaking and shivering like a rabid dog in the middle of a cross-section current. Just the shocking paralysis of realization. The sheer enormity of parallels.
‘You’ who rolled down your window to cool off and ‘he’ who dances on the baked tarp to survive. Still you continue to placidly stare at the beggar, so plagued with his perils that he forgot to beg. Forgot to cook up a story, forgot to send you a wish of happiness and a good future, because he was too busy trying to work on juggling his own.
For once the guilt ‘does’ get the better of you, it crashes into your being, so fervently that you are forced to act. This is ‘your’ beggar, the one who is meant to telepathically channel some lost part of your humanity, even if it’s only for a passing second. And so you heed the call, you help the Husk.
Or so you repeatedly tell yourself, to crop conscience. You stop the car and help him to the shade, dish out whatever it is you consider an exorbitant amount for the likes of him and pat yourself on the back for being human. All the while the Husk cringes away from you, blaming you with his innate ‘being’ for being you. He shirks and shrinks from your touch, believing you to be just another jackal…only there to rip out yet another one of his rotting limbs.
You drive away, you drive on. Crying and placating yourself for being ‘genuine’. Doing all you could. For this guilt too shall pass.
It cannot be helped.
You go home, take an aspirin so you ‘don’t feel’ the headache, you take a shower so you ‘don’t feel’ the dirt, you take a nap so you ‘don’t feel’ depressed, you write an article so you ‘don’t feel’ shallow, you order Mc Donald’s so you ‘don’t feel’ hungry, you drink Coke so you ‘don’t feel’ thirsty, you switch on the AC (full blast) so you ‘don’t feel’ hot.
You do all you can, so you ‘don’t’ feel.
Because feeling means admitting you CAN.
Then you force yourself to smile sitting at your desk contemplating, praying, pretending to be ‘one’ with God in the moment. You look at the tack board on your desk, and you read.
“Life is a limousine. There’s a front seat and a backseat. And a window in between”.
A Window.
No Door.
Sunday, May 07, 2006
rabid panic sodium sulphate ode to ebb moroseness:
Stalker germs from Candyland camp have pissed off Tongue Toffee tramps and now venture into the wooly mammoth cave of mooing mundanedum. Noah's avalanch of listrine lamentations is flooding over Moses on a motorcycle and old Abe dribbling a slamdunk in molar madness has accidently clobberred Santa claus' in a kibble of kung fu fighting. As rub a dub dub, glub, clamours in your ears and baa baa black sheep ba's in your rears (hah), many a tiny germosopes are dancing the hula to jambalayo!
Stalker germs from Candyland camp have pissed off Tongue Toffee tramps and now venture into the wooly mammoth cave of mooing mundanedum. Noah's avalanch of listrine lamentations is flooding over Moses on a motorcycle and old Abe dribbling a slamdunk in molar madness has accidently clobberred Santa claus' in a kibble of kung fu fighting. As rub a dub dub, glub, clamours in your ears and baa baa black sheep ba's in your rears (hah), many a tiny germosopes are dancing the hula to jambalayo!
Friday, May 05, 2006
Obsidian Flavours
Of the many flavours we are sent to savour, which can we honestly claim, takes precedence over love? As the shackled nuances and obsidian reprieve of words throws a plethora of diversions our way it is, so much easier to act disinterested rather than accept loneliness.
So we all choose to believe the delusion over the illusion.A monotonous list of ‘wants’ to combat the ache yet unaccounted for; I want freedom, I want independence (because we had to think of another alternative for freedom to make the list seem longer), I want family, I want success, I want to impress, I want fame and lets not forget (as if we could) I want beauty.
A perennial list of squabbles, mixed faith and misinterpreted impressions. But how does one deny that what we truly seek ‘is’ the illusion? That despite and in spite of our multiplex modern palette, we want to be rescued. We long for the illusion to beget all the ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’. The illusion of singing in the rain, Hollywood kisses and soul mate serendipity The illusion of one Kodak click crystallised in polaroid and for one silver screen fantasy to immortalise in 35mm. The ephemeral mirage of rainbow skies and stardust eyes.
And even though we insist ‘love’ is overrated and overused, it remains without question the one illusion that can never do justice unto itself.
The rebel needs it.
The sage needs it
The whore needs it
The prodigy needs it
The princess needs it
The dumb blonde needs it
The crone needs it
The punk needs it
The murderer needs it
And the murdered need it
So we all choose to believe the delusion over the illusion.A monotonous list of ‘wants’ to combat the ache yet unaccounted for; I want freedom, I want independence (because we had to think of another alternative for freedom to make the list seem longer), I want family, I want success, I want to impress, I want fame and lets not forget (as if we could) I want beauty.
A perennial list of squabbles, mixed faith and misinterpreted impressions. But how does one deny that what we truly seek ‘is’ the illusion? That despite and in spite of our multiplex modern palette, we want to be rescued. We long for the illusion to beget all the ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’. The illusion of singing in the rain, Hollywood kisses and soul mate serendipity The illusion of one Kodak click crystallised in polaroid and for one silver screen fantasy to immortalise in 35mm. The ephemeral mirage of rainbow skies and stardust eyes.
And even though we insist ‘love’ is overrated and overused, it remains without question the one illusion that can never do justice unto itself.
The rebel needs it.
The sage needs it
The whore needs it
The prodigy needs it
The princess needs it
The dumb blonde needs it
The crone needs it
The punk needs it
The murderer needs it
And the murdered need it
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