11/02/04
"Rocking it out, and taking it in, I scour the city searching for the power and mystery of the chaotic moment. That random coincidence beating back the stifling categorization of structured simplicity. Where will this mad city of beauty and balance lead me?
To Jesus costumes and veggie dogs and everywhere between. Creation sings out on the open streets and celebration beckons from the parks. The air is colder but their hearts are warmer, toasting beside the warmth of myriad bliss and eternal communion. All things are won. The battle has long been over. Spread the word, the gospel of peace, love, and understanding."
"Mocking hellish fright, madness born of spite and ego. Gore dripping fangs of ferocity, gouging out the jugular of society's bloated body. Searing sensations, flickering flames in the darkness of my solitary torment. I can't know, I can no longer tell myself to remain calm.
I am infected with humanity and it poisons my mind. Inclined to stalk and purge and disembowel the darkest of mankind. Two guns in two hands firing a barrage of bullets through the zombie zealots shuffling down the streets. Chainsaw slash slicing limbs, shoutgun blasts decimating torsos, rendering them inanimate once more."
"My god!" she exclaimed. "How long have you been drying your spine?"
I wish I could have responded but since she was a formless female voice I felt it was unnecessary. Not to mention the fact that I felt wild and out of control, piloting a human-mech with animated wreckless abandon.
The rats are coming and surging forward towards me. One by one they creep and scurry.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Monday, June 22, 2009
The Tower of Brahma - Chapter 30 - getting old
10/18/04
Spider walks over to Fenris, who sits lounging on the couch. Waiting room rock sifts from the speakers as Fenris scratches his beard thoughtfully. Spider slides out the chair and sits backwards, bored stiff splashed across his face.
"So what's the haps?" Spider sighed.
"Same old. Introspection and amazement at the dazzling spectacle of life changing events." Fenris groaned.
"Kind of a one trick pony, eh? Where's the fun and excitement?"
Fenris thought for a moment before replying, "He's off doing his own thing. Lots of Red Bull and vodka nights, and long days of celebrity photo polishing. Too busy to deal with us now that he's gotten what he was looking for."
"That fucker." Spider could barely muster the intensity to squash a bug.
The pair sat there for long days and nights, glaring at the patterns and designs of random dots upon the wall. These dots seemed to connect and words began to form. Physical objects began to break down into raw concepts. What was once sheet rock, paint and plaster became merely a wall, then the idea of a wall, then the mere word. Wall.
Barrier, obstruction, support structure. A montage mosaic of literary thesaurus-esque concepts soon stood before them. Their waning interest in their own existence was slowly being infected with surging power. They knew what to do instinctually.
Spider tied back his hair in a samurai style smirking grin. Fenris straightened his tie and fixed the cuffs of his suit. One swift kick spilled the words to the floor, now just a splash of letters and half-recalled slices of verbiage. Black hole swirls spinning cylindrically into the eternal beyond.
"Nice." Spider stared into the great unknown and felt the blood rush up from his legs, coursing its way through his entire body.
Fenris took one last look at the holding cell he was about to leave behind. A glorious facsimile of life that sat somehow between moments like a bubble adrift in the seas of time and space. Now that they had burst a hole it began to spread.
"Too late to think about consequences my friend."
Fenris was wearing what he thought was the perfect outfit, Tarantino tough guy disheveled black suit, now rumpled and ready to rumble. He looked over at Spider who was wild eyed and tensed and filled to the brim with action scenes ready to tear free from his limber frame.
"Let's kick some ass."
And with that they leapt forward.
Spider walks over to Fenris, who sits lounging on the couch. Waiting room rock sifts from the speakers as Fenris scratches his beard thoughtfully. Spider slides out the chair and sits backwards, bored stiff splashed across his face.
"So what's the haps?" Spider sighed.
"Same old. Introspection and amazement at the dazzling spectacle of life changing events." Fenris groaned.
"Kind of a one trick pony, eh? Where's the fun and excitement?"
Fenris thought for a moment before replying, "He's off doing his own thing. Lots of Red Bull and vodka nights, and long days of celebrity photo polishing. Too busy to deal with us now that he's gotten what he was looking for."
"That fucker." Spider could barely muster the intensity to squash a bug.
The pair sat there for long days and nights, glaring at the patterns and designs of random dots upon the wall. These dots seemed to connect and words began to form. Physical objects began to break down into raw concepts. What was once sheet rock, paint and plaster became merely a wall, then the idea of a wall, then the mere word. Wall.
Barrier, obstruction, support structure. A montage mosaic of literary thesaurus-esque concepts soon stood before them. Their waning interest in their own existence was slowly being infected with surging power. They knew what to do instinctually.
Spider tied back his hair in a samurai style smirking grin. Fenris straightened his tie and fixed the cuffs of his suit. One swift kick spilled the words to the floor, now just a splash of letters and half-recalled slices of verbiage. Black hole swirls spinning cylindrically into the eternal beyond.
"Nice." Spider stared into the great unknown and felt the blood rush up from his legs, coursing its way through his entire body.
Fenris took one last look at the holding cell he was about to leave behind. A glorious facsimile of life that sat somehow between moments like a bubble adrift in the seas of time and space. Now that they had burst a hole it began to spread.
"Too late to think about consequences my friend."
Fenris was wearing what he thought was the perfect outfit, Tarantino tough guy disheveled black suit, now rumpled and ready to rumble. He looked over at Spider who was wild eyed and tensed and filled to the brim with action scenes ready to tear free from his limber frame.
"Let's kick some ass."
And with that they leapt forward.
Monday, June 15, 2009
The Tower of Brahma - Twenty-Nine - Dead Gods
10/13/04
The story opens and all that existed before was mere backstory setting up the situation that exists at this very moment.
I awoke scratching my beard. The bed seemed familiar yet completely new. Transposed from one situation to another I found myself and my memory immersed in a new life. Sketchy details float on back to me through alcohol induced moments of blissful, eternal oblivion. No thoughts or feelings rising except those that are necessary to keep me standing. The dulled senses help when I leave the bed.
Outside the cave where I entered this new world lies a city. A sprawling metropolis that seems to be a controlled experiment in the derangement of the senses. Experiences here are made every minute. Polished off and passed out on every street corner. I'm making my way down Delancey and the sun is punishing my eyeballs. Characters come and pass me by, screaming loud their silent insecurities and desires. My innate insight into the human being seems to be jarred and not fully functional yet.
Then I remember why. Beer, shots, wine, and liquor have split and separated what was merged and then put it back together into one incohesive whole. This new me was the pendragon, the bearded explorer of this foreign land. The submerged me was the calculating fighter, the action hero waiting to burst.
I'm staring in my new work bathroom mirror, a replacement for the one where I once stood and became inspired to write about that person I saw on the other side. I'm looking at the man I see before me and wonder how I got here. But I know. Somehow.
Fine tuning the celebrity machine, processing the transactions of the fame bounty hunters. They steal a snippet of a person's visage to sell to the highest bidder and I clean up the kill, polish it, and send it off to the masses to consume, dream, inspect, and scrutinize. Killing celebs one snapshot at a time.
Flowing from my frontal lobe, extended invisibly across the table of 7A where we are about to be served brunch. God's searing flame reflects off the wall of yawning yellow void across the street. The conversations seem far and distant and sadly cynical and depraved. Animal totems charge up those around me and then I hear the ideas come forth, creeping soundlessly, then strike without mercy nor warning.
We are all fragments of dead gods, living out the fragmented battles of ages and aeons. Mixed and matched, distilled from ancient ancestors and blood that comes from the center of the world.
The story opens and all that existed before was mere backstory setting up the situation that exists at this very moment.
I awoke scratching my beard. The bed seemed familiar yet completely new. Transposed from one situation to another I found myself and my memory immersed in a new life. Sketchy details float on back to me through alcohol induced moments of blissful, eternal oblivion. No thoughts or feelings rising except those that are necessary to keep me standing. The dulled senses help when I leave the bed.
Outside the cave where I entered this new world lies a city. A sprawling metropolis that seems to be a controlled experiment in the derangement of the senses. Experiences here are made every minute. Polished off and passed out on every street corner. I'm making my way down Delancey and the sun is punishing my eyeballs. Characters come and pass me by, screaming loud their silent insecurities and desires. My innate insight into the human being seems to be jarred and not fully functional yet.
Then I remember why. Beer, shots, wine, and liquor have split and separated what was merged and then put it back together into one incohesive whole. This new me was the pendragon, the bearded explorer of this foreign land. The submerged me was the calculating fighter, the action hero waiting to burst.
I'm staring in my new work bathroom mirror, a replacement for the one where I once stood and became inspired to write about that person I saw on the other side. I'm looking at the man I see before me and wonder how I got here. But I know. Somehow.
Fine tuning the celebrity machine, processing the transactions of the fame bounty hunters. They steal a snippet of a person's visage to sell to the highest bidder and I clean up the kill, polish it, and send it off to the masses to consume, dream, inspect, and scrutinize. Killing celebs one snapshot at a time.
Flowing from my frontal lobe, extended invisibly across the table of 7A where we are about to be served brunch. God's searing flame reflects off the wall of yawning yellow void across the street. The conversations seem far and distant and sadly cynical and depraved. Animal totems charge up those around me and then I hear the ideas come forth, creeping soundlessly, then strike without mercy nor warning.
We are all fragments of dead gods, living out the fragmented battles of ages and aeons. Mixed and matched, distilled from ancient ancestors and blood that comes from the center of the world.
Monday, June 8, 2009
The Tower of Brahma - 28 - we're all the main character
09/23/04
Everything is different.
Where am I? Who am I? How did I get here? My eyes open for what seems like the first time and I see the world lies before me, open and blossoming wild.
In the dark my naked sensitivity cries alone.
I am a writer. Writing down the words of my life as they click out the drama. Alternating thumbs slamming letter after letter, casting the spell. I'm walking down the cold New York City streets and putting something down onto my handheld portable device. Digitally drawing the chalk outline of my former self. That crying monstrosity, whining and misaligning my life.
He is gone forever.
I'm twenty eight years old now. My next stage falls from the tree of life, and I'm loving that freefall plunge to the ground. I started writing a book and then the story became my life. I have seemingly tapped into some positive force that is guiding me towards some amazing adventure. The lines between fiction and reality have blurred a bit, and now it seems as if I truly am the main character. My story has just started and like a stone skipping across calm waters, segments and situations play out with the dramatic resonance of perfected life.
The lights dim just for us as incidentals blink out of existence. She has guided me into this life, reminded me that I am at the controls, and inspired me to plot this mad journey across time and space. I stare into her auburn eyes and see the divine infinite that lies between us. Although I can't fully see it, I sense this void between us is composed of layers upon layers of story. A mosaic collage of personality pasted up, each fragment a puzzle piece given to us by those we have and those we had in our lives.
I used to feel sad about this space, sitting in this dark alone, these walls and barriers preventing the sublime merging of our souls. But my intentions were wrong, my perceptions skewed. They're decorations, accessories, costumes, and yes, occasionally walls, damming the flow of turbulent and tumultuous change. We're all fragile inside this singing white light.
I walk tall these days. Upright and confident, looking people in the eyes and not turning away. The mad poet has birthed the king deep within me.
Everything is different.
Where am I? Who am I? How did I get here? My eyes open for what seems like the first time and I see the world lies before me, open and blossoming wild.
In the dark my naked sensitivity cries alone.
I am a writer. Writing down the words of my life as they click out the drama. Alternating thumbs slamming letter after letter, casting the spell. I'm walking down the cold New York City streets and putting something down onto my handheld portable device. Digitally drawing the chalk outline of my former self. That crying monstrosity, whining and misaligning my life.
He is gone forever.
I'm twenty eight years old now. My next stage falls from the tree of life, and I'm loving that freefall plunge to the ground. I started writing a book and then the story became my life. I have seemingly tapped into some positive force that is guiding me towards some amazing adventure. The lines between fiction and reality have blurred a bit, and now it seems as if I truly am the main character. My story has just started and like a stone skipping across calm waters, segments and situations play out with the dramatic resonance of perfected life.
The lights dim just for us as incidentals blink out of existence. She has guided me into this life, reminded me that I am at the controls, and inspired me to plot this mad journey across time and space. I stare into her auburn eyes and see the divine infinite that lies between us. Although I can't fully see it, I sense this void between us is composed of layers upon layers of story. A mosaic collage of personality pasted up, each fragment a puzzle piece given to us by those we have and those we had in our lives.
I used to feel sad about this space, sitting in this dark alone, these walls and barriers preventing the sublime merging of our souls. But my intentions were wrong, my perceptions skewed. They're decorations, accessories, costumes, and yes, occasionally walls, damming the flow of turbulent and tumultuous change. We're all fragile inside this singing white light.
I walk tall these days. Upright and confident, looking people in the eyes and not turning away. The mad poet has birthed the king deep within me.
Monday, June 1, 2009
The tower of brahma - 27 - pt. FIVE
09/13/04
The discordians favor my change by providing me the randomly generated combinations of 2 & 3. My entire life vacuum sucks itself into a 5x10 storage singularity, designated number 32. The Freemasons are taking me in with welcoming Orwellian arms.
Illuminated conspiracy of thought space, ideas too big and ancient to die. Lumbering masses of cancerous belief systems slither and grumble across the liquid planet. Flowing to high points of saturated strength, these reversed rivers of backed up dysfunction blacken the heights of humanity's aspiration.
From the roof of the building I can see the city's profile. Satisfyingly smooth and vivid, with the picturesque surround of the finest set design. The eye aligns with the calculated positioning of its architecture.
Sidewinder jetfighter dogfighting yelp into the yawning cosmos of the city night. Silly stoned seeking safe passage across the sidewalk skies. Piloting on reflexes and failed training pod crashes, somehow you know the universe will carry you through this. Faith of the divine flows through you as access to the infinite possibilities of tomorrow shines bright in your eyes.
Like Pluto spinning wild and loose, distinct in my own planetary orbit around the solar center of the party, I am the lone wolf launching echo coyote calls into the still night air. The primal placenta lowers itself upon me and I burst through. Painted stars on a dayglow daydream, the world is reborn before my eyes as I witness the exchange of terror and birthing symbology. Trickster ghouls and goblins of grotesque decend and drop among us. Celestial birthed madmen and women stomping out a tribal dance of our spirit. Submission to the beat, the sweaty swaggering and hands rubbing across your body reminding you of what life is all about.
The savage alterego mirrored and reversed through my center beats wildly at the constricting forces and wriggles its way into my primal heart. Jungle jive jangling and dangling and wrangling my mind into the wave of visceral viscosity. Primate chest slam, rhythm of the slamming shoes, head bobbing to the crowd's sync. Set ablaze by the forgoing of intellect and entrance to sensation.
Beacons of light thrust upwards, a spotlight looking for god and reason and purpose and prayer. Illuminating instead the debris caught swirling in the path of the twin beams of radiant hope. We raise our glasses high and toast the search for meaning and survival in the face of adversity.
Good times.
The discordians favor my change by providing me the randomly generated combinations of 2 & 3. My entire life vacuum sucks itself into a 5x10 storage singularity, designated number 32. The Freemasons are taking me in with welcoming Orwellian arms.
Illuminated conspiracy of thought space, ideas too big and ancient to die. Lumbering masses of cancerous belief systems slither and grumble across the liquid planet. Flowing to high points of saturated strength, these reversed rivers of backed up dysfunction blacken the heights of humanity's aspiration.
From the roof of the building I can see the city's profile. Satisfyingly smooth and vivid, with the picturesque surround of the finest set design. The eye aligns with the calculated positioning of its architecture.
Sidewinder jetfighter dogfighting yelp into the yawning cosmos of the city night. Silly stoned seeking safe passage across the sidewalk skies. Piloting on reflexes and failed training pod crashes, somehow you know the universe will carry you through this. Faith of the divine flows through you as access to the infinite possibilities of tomorrow shines bright in your eyes.
Like Pluto spinning wild and loose, distinct in my own planetary orbit around the solar center of the party, I am the lone wolf launching echo coyote calls into the still night air. The primal placenta lowers itself upon me and I burst through. Painted stars on a dayglow daydream, the world is reborn before my eyes as I witness the exchange of terror and birthing symbology. Trickster ghouls and goblins of grotesque decend and drop among us. Celestial birthed madmen and women stomping out a tribal dance of our spirit. Submission to the beat, the sweaty swaggering and hands rubbing across your body reminding you of what life is all about.
The savage alterego mirrored and reversed through my center beats wildly at the constricting forces and wriggles its way into my primal heart. Jungle jive jangling and dangling and wrangling my mind into the wave of visceral viscosity. Primate chest slam, rhythm of the slamming shoes, head bobbing to the crowd's sync. Set ablaze by the forgoing of intellect and entrance to sensation.
Beacons of light thrust upwards, a spotlight looking for god and reason and purpose and prayer. Illuminating instead the debris caught swirling in the path of the twin beams of radiant hope. We raise our glasses high and toast the search for meaning and survival in the face of adversity.
Good times.
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