Posts tagged: fiction
I talk to so many people at once, so many possible readers, so many backstories to consider, so many trigger warnings and explanations, so much seemingly necessary unpacking, like a day spent lugging my headstone around, and when it doesn’t leave me sitting in front of a blank screen with option paralysis it’s made me a politician, so concerned with how this or that could be construed after the fact, how the collection of things I’ve said and things I’ve caused could collectively be construed, and if there was ever an actual meaning buried under all that worry it’s been smothered to death, the body buried so deep inside it won’t start to stink until next summer.
i’ve got a short film of chuck norris taking a dump in a child’s toybox you can borrow. the best part is when the child cries. originally it was gonna be a full-length feature. shitty christmas, starring chuck norris. only bobby beausoleil, who also did a goofy syntho soundtrack, refused to share writing credits with chuck, and that’s why the manson family killed bruce lee. not many people know that jane birkin, french pop chanteuse and wife of serge gainsbourg, had her actual teeth removed and replace with the teeth of two wolves at the direction of lee disciple wilt chamberlain, and that she was to be the final opponent in lee’s “psycherotik” collaboration with renouned “New Satanist” and lsd addict Jackie Gleason entitled “Jesus Fucker ‘78”, a film about a gang of thirteen bikers on a mission to kill the president. chuck norris was not asked to participate. in a vodka-rage, norris and then-lover jan michael vincent snuck into the home of bruce and linda lee and took a dump in brandon lee’s crib. his attempt to have timothy leary kill manson at vacaville prison was less successful. at the very end of the rolling stones documentary “cocksucker blues”, there is a second-long flash of an “attack and cripple” sigil, hand-drawn by dennis wilson prior to his “accidental” death. it is my conviction that chuck norris, who suffers from dyslexia, saw this sigil in its inverted state and became an agent of the hidden christ. syd and marty krofft built automated fellatio devices with the faces of history’s great villians which were shared and soiled at lee’s “retreats” in the hidden city beneath oakland. it was here that norris learned “the death-touch”, a combination of jeet kune do and remote viewing. “Every home holds a weapon, a gun pointed at the faces of every viewer,” an obviously intoxicated norris told tv guide in 1988. the ghosts of all the people chuck norris has killed via television gather at his bedside as he tries to sleep, fighting coke-jitters and heart palpitations and crying jags, no one left to call at three am and beg for mercy, no stareyed groupies to give a medicated nod to his every memory, desperate searches for instructions from his god blurred and broken. tonight, black peter stalks chuck norris, santa pants around his ankles, faded polaroids stuck to his bare chest.
the past is like the aether it doesn’t really exist or perhaps more accurately it exists the way ghosts exist only insofar as one believes in them or has the sense to seek them new organs in your chest to detect trust and compassion but you all know me too much to believe these stories any more i’ve made too many mistakes thought that to circle back and make amends becomes this complicated involution where each time I lift the blinds there’s someone else i wronged said too many stupid things there’s always going to be that moment of hesitation in your replies now static like snow heavy on the trees and always quiet in that feeling of shared relief when you realize you both understand the unspoken thing shared between you which is me and what has happened to me i lost thirteen pounds in the past six weeks but that doesn’t mean i stopped being myself i shaved my head again but i’m still me new clothing and new catch-phrases new books pulled at random from the library even trying to learn to use my left hand the only thing i can do is to go away i’ll try to come back after i become someone else just to say hi i sat on the couch my knees pulled up beneath my chin and i watched the paint all afternoon it will take time before i can start being someone else because i have to let the rest of me fade a bit first apparently untie the knots i’ve bound to this world i’m not totally sure how these things work. but i’ll be okay i’ll drop a line i love you though i never said it nearly enough and there will always be a me who loves you even when that self takes some other form the wind in the trees or the taste of the coming storm on the back of your tongue the condensation on your glasses a ghost in a mirror looking over your shoulder somewhere
Two weeks ago the girl I’ve kinda been seeing asked me if I would go with her to her brother’s intervention, and I said fine, because basically I’ll do anything a woman asks me to do, plus her brother’s just a little fella and so I wasn’t worried about what he’d do if he freaked out. I met Mike (that’s the brother’s name) a few times and he seemed like kinda a prick but not somebody who needed serious help but then what do I know about it. Right? So Melissa (that’s the girl I’ve kinda been seeing) says no, you don’t know, he borrowed all this money from my mom and me and it’s all gone and so I should have kept my mouth shut but I say well what’s a lot of money and Melissa says a couple hundred dollars with this serious tone in her voice like that’s a statement that speaks for itself and I say a couple hundred dollars? and she says you say that like that’s not a lot of money and I say well I mean it’s a lot of money and she says didn’t you just get fired from your stupid little job at the mall? and I say listen I’m not saying it’s not a lot of money but okay so how long has it been and she says two weeks and I’m like, in my head, I’m like oh god here we go, I knew there was something. But even past all that I still go to the intervention and even break into this guy’s apartment just so we can surprise him when he gets home from work and not only does he have the money (which it turns out was a total of eighty bucks) but he borrowed the money to get his mom this really fancy looking china cabinet and he even drives us all, like all nine of us waiting for him, down to the storage place out by the airport so we can see it. Happy birthday, mom! I mean, that’s pretty much when I knew. But the good thing of it is that I met Melissa’s sister at the intervention. Don’t give me that look.
Suzie Hawkins died there in that swamp. She died when I brought the tire iron down on the back of that molester’s skull, the wet thump of it as the light left his eyes, still twitching as I dragged his body out of the driver’s seat and over the edge of the bridge. Those dreams I had sank with him as I pulled the cash from his wallet and got back on the road. I’d never be that little girl again. It’s the American dream. I really believe I could have pulled that car out onto the blacktop and headed into a new world if only I hadn’t looked in the trunk and seen the blood-spattered ceremonial robe wrapped around something. Something heavy. Something I did not want to know. I closed the trunk and tried to forget it, tried not to think about anything until I could dump the car and get into town.
lord gregor went off into the wastes to die, but did not die, did not split his skull on the rock that resembles an old woman’s breast, did not fall from the cliff overlooking Coon Wizard Bay, did not hang himself from the dead tree where not even the jackdaws would nest, he just wandered his whiskey-staggered way through the elderberries and the poplars and the shiver-brambles as his teeth fell from his mouth like breadcrumbs and in the empty place where nothing grows he sat and waited but nothing happened, nothing came for him, no god blessed his unbound heart, no devil sucked the eyes from the skull, nothing happened, nothing for anyone, nothing changed, there was nothing, and there would be nothing, and it was all nothing. then lord gregor slept, and in the morning he washed his face in the stream, and found his way back to the parking lot, and drove his car back into town.
[just found on an amiga 500 floppy]
Out behind the barns, past the grove of trees growing from a bed of abandoned cars and trash, past the electric fence and the place where the hunters set up their deer stands, way out there is where The Snow Queen lived. She floated above the lake just after the sun had set; she pressed with the tip of her finger into the ice and cracks ran from her across the surface, she floated again, she pressed again, a latticework of bright white lines ran through the darker white of the lake, the same dark white as the sky when the sun finally returned. People would occasionally stumble past this site, the movements lost to the blowing snow, only almost seeing what took place across the lake.
There were nights where by some odd chance someone would see The Snow Queen and know her face. They would wander out to the lake, crawl across ice so smooth you need to claw your fingernails into the surface in order to pull yourself forward, all the while going snowblind and frostbitten and half-mad beneath a hidden moon. Atop the wind is the sound of the wolves who dance and pray in the woods by the lakeside but they go unheard to those on the ice. finding themselves at the center of the lake, at the feet of The Snow Queen, whispering through lips gone blue that they always believed, that they were convinced, that they always had faith in her.
The Snow Queen would smile, sigh, and watch them as the ice swallowed them, down, drown, a perfect stillness.
Nothing remains of the Snow Queen now but these cracks and bio-organic residue, far too faded to see without very technical equipment which could never function when the wind is as cold as this. And it fades.
We begin at the very end, where the Devi Nihil Ashram All-Seeing Orchestra break into the final series of recursive crescendos, each one feeding back into the others, as down on the warplain the scavenger worm people displayed perfect mastery of recent developments in three-places-at-once technology, which makes for the ritual stripping of the flesh not only quicker but downright jaunty, being a pleasurable afternoon on the plains rather than the dramatic and well-nigh endless chore it once was. Young James Young, whose dreams now nothing but a sandbox to play out alternate strategies for this past year’s worth of battles have taken place to his mental detriment and eventual breakdown, was blessed to see the end-result of his work via a reflection in his cereal spoon washed over with sugary brown milk, the redivision of the intermediate zones due to the most efficient and bloodless (though really still pretty awful and violent, to our standards, but being smarmy college relativists I’m sure you’ll naysay my opinions on the bug people’s culture) though it all just made Young James Young burst into tears, never to eat cereal again, a fate worse than death for addicts and archivists such as myself. The single survivors are currently working on their tell-all series of palm scrolls entitled “I should have just kept my fucking mouth shut: the Fourteen, Sixteen and Thirtyeight story”, which will sell all of three copies, obviously, but it’s all about posterity and the privilege of history with these people. And so it was that even the greatest of insect musicals, filled with drama and eggsac-napping and drone armies, still doesn’t quite have it nailed with the endings, and the majesty is lost, but what can we ask of those who have paid such extravagant costs? I offer thanks and bowls of trash, and wait patiently for the insect musical to truly reach its highest point.
Owen’s mom thinks maybe she’s getting into bondage, but Owen thinks really she just wants to become an escape artist. He was telling her about Houdini and how there’s no way what Houdini did was a sin against God, no way. This settled her quite a bit and the two of them worked on the harnessing designs until I came in and tried to explain to Owen my idea that the cross was really a means of preventing the bodily ascension of Christ, only the Roman guards who placed him on the cross really were Christians at heart and this is why he was crucified through the palms and feet instead of the wrists and ankles, as was standard operating procedure, and thus all the religious iconography and tales of bleeding stigmata are perfectly accurate, and then Owen’s mom got all freaked out again.
Speaking of Jesus, this was November First, which three years ago became Angel Day, where the spawn of Cedar Valley Conglomerated Church dressed their children in tin-foil haloes and old worn linens and marched them door to door to sing hymns and hand out toothbrushes. Vermin. Three of these mewling rugrats were at the door, singing a self-scripted hymn entitled “Proper Dental Attitude” when Owen invited them in and hacked them to little bits.
Owen wants me to tell you that’s not really true; he didn’t really hack any children up. We did slip them some Pixie-Stix and Mexican Skull Candy, though, and I’d like to think they’re currently bouncing around their minivans, tweaking on their belated sugar rush.