09NOV08 – Pieces of madness from last night’s dream. Our Hero, locked inside a dusty voodoo mansion crowded with dying candles, unpurposed flowers and empty bottles. Chalk drawings and macabre masks, scattered alters and borrowed bones. “Be careful what gets into your heads, Little Ones, for it may never come out again.”
And so I hid my eyes beneath a threadbare blanket while various horrors took place around me. I didn’t see any of it and don’t remember it, understanding somehow that if I peeked or acknowledged what was happening on the other side of that blanket, I’d be instantly set upon by angry men with long knives and a language barrier incapable of interpreting my cries for mercy.
“You can gaze upon the lords, but looking at the shogun will make you blind, and the emperor cannot be seen at all.” This is important, somehow.
Sitting in a coffee house listening to Also Spake Zarathustra and attempting to write up to that triumphant sound. (It’s probably gonna take more than a shitty netbook and a $4.95 coffee, but I think we can all agree that it’s good to dream.)
Just a few strands of crystalline fiber sticking out the physical access port. I pinch one gossamer thread between the thumb and index finger of my left hand and pull it outward, inserting it carefully into my eye, feeling nothing as the mechanism within squirms toward and copulates with my optic nerve…
First there is a mountain,
then there is no mountain,
then there is.
My hands fall limp into my lap, and my thoughts begin walking around on their own:
Quote in memory: “I don’t give a stack of tits what anyone says about rehashed ideas. If you can scour the graveyard of rock n’ roll and build something new from the rusted hulks you find there you’re onto something good, because it’s harder to create than it is to destroy.”
In-flight moment: “Yeah, like a moist toilette is gonna do it. As if breathing in that faint antiseptic steam is gonna chase away the bleary eyes, the stiff shoulders, the compacted spine, and the terrible suspicion that someone slathered the dregs of a deep fat fryer across my sleeping face, dabbing the brush in my mouth for good measure. Still, the Sky Ninja’s got enough shit to worry about; slamming, shuffling, stumbling, sorting and smiling. Not only does a Sky Ninja have to look their best at all times, but they have to serve you hot coffee in high turbulence, make change for a $50, and still be able to herd your panicking, cattle-stampeding ass off this burning dick in the event that shit suddenly goes sideways. So thank you, Sky Ninja. This pre-moistened towelette will do just fine.”
July 21, 2006: The assassin in freefall, his parachute failed. Got to make his bones regardless; draws both pistols and does his best to draw a bead while plummeting ever closer to the ground. Target exits the building, maybe twenty paces to the waiting limo. “If I can’t take him out with a bullet, maybe I can break him with my fall.” Target looks up at the last second. Look on the target’s face was priceless. Never saw it comming.
Found in journal: “And in those final moments, when our entire lives flash before our eyes, we will concentrate upon this instant in futility, as though we could lift the needle from the record and pause the song, as though we could skip this unpleasant paragraph and leave the story incomplete. But when you die, make sure all you gotta do is die, and that Jeff Goldblum is doing tai chi.”
The minutes keep on walking; a colorful and irreplaceable parade of precious cruelties and unspeakable magic broken into short intervals. And sometimes, people throw candy…
In the park, near a statue:
Robber barons use
their ill-gotten wealth to
create public zen.
Speak all languages: the planet’s personal mediator, sitting at an intersection of life and death, watching armies march in all directions. Turn your cell phone off, and ignore every text the End Man sends you, as the sky grows dark with circling birds.
The next day was Sunday. I sat in a cafe watching the snowflakes tumble down fast and fat as the waitress brings me coffee. A man with a Mohawk cooked my breakfast.
“The rest is easy, because Henry Miller made it look easy.”
I live for the moments when the music and the mood unite, when the planets groan into position like a clock of immeasurable proportion and suddenly I’m walking down the street with my head on fire, trailing tongues of trickling blue. Suddenly, time grinds to a squeaking halt. And not just around me, or on this block, or in this city state, but in all places, and at all times: fish frozen in the rivers, birds halted in mid-flight, sunlight with the parking brake on, and the light of distant stars idling like cars at an intersection.
I understood long ago that I will never die. That’s right. I… will… never… die… I will grow old, and I will eventually shit my last, but the ‘me’ that makes up ‘me’ will be recycled. I’ll be back again. I am not, as the man said, ” a beautiful and unique snowflake.” My thoughts have been thought before, and will occur to others again. I get it. And I’m okay with that.
That’s the lowest form of truth, the baseline. We are born, we live, and we die. Everything takes place in this dimension, and on this planet. Nobody really knows anything, and everything will surprise you if you let it. Nothing lasts forever, except nothing and forever, and in the end, there are no odds to beat.
Either it will or it won’t,