06/26/07
I don't know if this happens with every deal with the devil, but I remembered that I sold him my soul only afterwards. Roughly about two years later, I'd imagine 666 days if I did the math, I find myself recalling the details of my swap with Satan himself.
At age thirteen I'm setting fire to plastic letters stolen off a display sign from the temple across the street. My friend and I are smoking cigarettes and sipping whiskey as we light up the plastic over a small pit as part of our adolescent backyard conjuring of Mephisto.
No dark display makes itself known but perhaps that's when the door was open. From there my life fell apart. My grandmother died, someone killed himself on my birthday, and I became a bastard who didn't care. I was numb, a soulless simpleton tumbling down a path of self-destruction. I slipped into a Hell of my own making, masochistically flogging my guilt with psychological torture.
So, two years ago I said I'd give whatever was left for a way out. He gave me words for the shred I had left. I'd have enough words for 64 chapters. Enough words to end it all and to do it right this time. We shook hands, I signed in blood, and off he went to the Underworld.
I prayed for the stories to come and release me, somehow redeem my unworthy self. I, like every sucker who swaps with the Devil, tried to use the gift I had to undo this deal. I exorcised my demons with symbolism and pleaded with my passion to get me in his good graces.
Maybe it all started before this. Back to a time I don't recall. A primal, power play where I die before innocence is lost and brought back before judgment of my eternal soul. These words simply must save me for they are all I possess.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Monday, July 27, 2009
The Tower of Brahma: 35 - interruption
07/11/06
And suddenly I wanted to kill.
Who was this? An assassin...
Not likely. I thought this was a madness I was catching but reality is the pain that forced me into insanity's fair arms.
She made me a mad sexy one, rebirthed through beetle recycling, and ready for damage. Tossing down the pieces, staring madly at the fortunes of trinkets, I saw the secret of the universe revealed unto me.
I have a countdown to solve the riddle. I can't wait til the final nail-biting seconds to defuse my literal existence. The answers must be found now!
But regardless of pace, the journey unfolds as it does, not as you wish. The signal is vibrating the tether in the centre. It shakes loose words, broadcasting them to acres of neurons, snapping puzzle pieces of sanity onto the coffee table.
Coffee table...I'm drunk. The future? Past? It feels like a memory and my consciousness lets go and I get into the pilot seat and scream and holler as I whirl my empty vessel into the night, headed straight downtown.
To the ground, laid down, and then up again until you're laughing in all of their faces one by one. You look around and they look upon, smiling down and across. Penetrating glances, glaring prances, fairy dust dances with phallic accuracy.
Jokester, prankster, playing the games but I forgot that I told myself not to remember anything so as to fool us all straight into the game. Our nights and dreams is all, it seems. Battle bravely, defending identity to its bitter end.
The girl dreams of the boy and he of her. That heart can't take the hurt, so, in hiding his dreams among the starry skies he rises and falls again. He knows, wanting to amuse and bemuse his lovely muse, so tries but fails to maintain his place. Quests for longing, meaningful masterpiece of my eye, I've gone inside.
Brainwash the self into betterment. Bridge that gap between perfection and yourself. Buy into the scheme that you've made to live within. Learn the rules and have fun. Further instructions lie...
And suddenly I wanted to kill.
Who was this? An assassin...
Not likely. I thought this was a madness I was catching but reality is the pain that forced me into insanity's fair arms.
She made me a mad sexy one, rebirthed through beetle recycling, and ready for damage. Tossing down the pieces, staring madly at the fortunes of trinkets, I saw the secret of the universe revealed unto me.
I have a countdown to solve the riddle. I can't wait til the final nail-biting seconds to defuse my literal existence. The answers must be found now!
But regardless of pace, the journey unfolds as it does, not as you wish. The signal is vibrating the tether in the centre. It shakes loose words, broadcasting them to acres of neurons, snapping puzzle pieces of sanity onto the coffee table.
Coffee table...I'm drunk. The future? Past? It feels like a memory and my consciousness lets go and I get into the pilot seat and scream and holler as I whirl my empty vessel into the night, headed straight downtown.
To the ground, laid down, and then up again until you're laughing in all of their faces one by one. You look around and they look upon, smiling down and across. Penetrating glances, glaring prances, fairy dust dances with phallic accuracy.
Jokester, prankster, playing the games but I forgot that I told myself not to remember anything so as to fool us all straight into the game. Our nights and dreams is all, it seems. Battle bravely, defending identity to its bitter end.
The girl dreams of the boy and he of her. That heart can't take the hurt, so, in hiding his dreams among the starry skies he rises and falls again. He knows, wanting to amuse and bemuse his lovely muse, so tries but fails to maintain his place. Quests for longing, meaningful masterpiece of my eye, I've gone inside.
Brainwash the self into betterment. Bridge that gap between perfection and yourself. Buy into the scheme that you've made to live within. Learn the rules and have fun. Further instructions lie...
Monday, July 20, 2009
The tower of brahma - thirty4 - existence is futile
05/08/06
On the inside of my favorite book I found a collection of paragraph length prose scattered on seemingly random pages. Below is the collected words strung together. I hope it helps me make sense of this...
Gone is the boy that marches like a beast. Slipped into and then born anew, I am left and right. Odds and evens are added together creating poisoned man, complete man.
I'm not supposed to have this in my head. Its vulgar honesty is infecting my morals. Refusing refuge from the scarring truth I mangle my brains, mash my bones, and confuse myself further.
Two are down and the third is most important. It's the final movement that defines your choice. The last ark that careens through the sky and lands upon something that is different from the starting point. Shoot the hand and cry again, but fight through it and place it on top.
You made your decision and the plateau is relief incarnate. Rest a lie, sleep a dream, live the life and skip it all. You've made the moves and there's no going back. Started unconsciously can warrant no blame. Flames scorching the Earth, Liquifying the Sky, this is not what you did, it's what you chose. Or rather what chose you.
Hand it over. Accept no blame. God did this; his Universe, his rules, your life you lose. Orchestrated construction of eternal damnation: Celebration! Father forgives the weakness, cowardice, innocence, and common sense.
Did the devil dance in your eyes tonight?
In the end it's yours. Do with it what you will. Feverish impulses of sanity bursting forth from your flesh covered sixth sense. It's rumbling beneath intensifying, igniting, and ignoble.
On the inside of my favorite book I found a collection of paragraph length prose scattered on seemingly random pages. Below is the collected words strung together. I hope it helps me make sense of this...
Gone is the boy that marches like a beast. Slipped into and then born anew, I am left and right. Odds and evens are added together creating poisoned man, complete man.
I'm not supposed to have this in my head. Its vulgar honesty is infecting my morals. Refusing refuge from the scarring truth I mangle my brains, mash my bones, and confuse myself further.
Two are down and the third is most important. It's the final movement that defines your choice. The last ark that careens through the sky and lands upon something that is different from the starting point. Shoot the hand and cry again, but fight through it and place it on top.
You made your decision and the plateau is relief incarnate. Rest a lie, sleep a dream, live the life and skip it all. You've made the moves and there's no going back. Started unconsciously can warrant no blame. Flames scorching the Earth, Liquifying the Sky, this is not what you did, it's what you chose. Or rather what chose you.
Hand it over. Accept no blame. God did this; his Universe, his rules, your life you lose. Orchestrated construction of eternal damnation: Celebration! Father forgives the weakness, cowardice, innocence, and common sense.
Did the devil dance in your eyes tonight?
In the end it's yours. Do with it what you will. Feverish impulses of sanity bursting forth from your flesh covered sixth sense. It's rumbling beneath intensifying, igniting, and ignoble.
Monday, July 13, 2009
the Tower of Brahma - thirtythree - hourglass + gear = fractal wormhole
02/26/06
I recently came across this Tower of Brahma piece scrawled in a notebook. The notebook itself is partially burned and contains a handful of entries I don't recall writing. I believe these to be written while I was binge drinking when I first moved to New York City.
It took me 3.14 seconds to discover the universe's secret plan.
Imagine looking at a circle painted on a wall. Except it's painted on a piece of paper on the wall. Someone lifts the bottom of the paper and the circle starts to distort. From there your mind drops down a floor, landing softly. Here, the circle is a sideways hockey puck on a small stand. Another person lifts the object off the base and then it starts to turn. The tailend comes into view and you see it's an hourglass that was set on its side, the sand evenly distributed among the two glass cylindrical domes. Your mind rollercoaster plunges into the hourglass and microscopically picks out the center of the glass tube where we see every grain of sand as it goes to the lower half. Each one of them by their self, as millions, possibly billions, pressed forward on towards the bottom.
You slip into the idea of time itself. The twisting of grains of sand spinning themselves into your modern context of the idea of time. You think of a clock face. The ever faithful arms clicking out the time for you forever. The endless circle of gears rotating round and round clicking out moments one metal twist at a time. The clock explodes from behind and the gears and springs and grease are sent spiraling outwards and towards you. It's around and around and back again as they travel slowly in a slo-mo scene.
Thinking this helps see the inside of the fractal lifting procedure which is currently being applied to your person. Please do not be afraid. This is a fairly harmless procedure that we are conducting.
Please enjoy the music.
The drilling continues and burrows into your mind.
You've seen a fractal right? You know what I mean. The trippy spirally pictures. Hey maybe that black light poster your stoner ass roommate had in your apt in college. No, that conch shell you found at the beach, with its oceanic recordings whispered among its grooves. Nah, the shore lines themselves, the seas carving away at the earth in a rotating and repeating pattern.
Those are fractals?
Why sure! And what's even better is now you can see the fractal lifted from off the page of our known reality! Congratulations and thank you for choosing Tower of Brahma for your enlightenment needs.
There appears to have been a title that was completely scribbled out. Although obscured, we believe that from the impression on the page below it had read "CRUCIFIX A HIT SON".
I recently came across this Tower of Brahma piece scrawled in a notebook. The notebook itself is partially burned and contains a handful of entries I don't recall writing. I believe these to be written while I was binge drinking when I first moved to New York City.
It took me 3.14 seconds to discover the universe's secret plan.
Imagine looking at a circle painted on a wall. Except it's painted on a piece of paper on the wall. Someone lifts the bottom of the paper and the circle starts to distort. From there your mind drops down a floor, landing softly. Here, the circle is a sideways hockey puck on a small stand. Another person lifts the object off the base and then it starts to turn. The tailend comes into view and you see it's an hourglass that was set on its side, the sand evenly distributed among the two glass cylindrical domes. Your mind rollercoaster plunges into the hourglass and microscopically picks out the center of the glass tube where we see every grain of sand as it goes to the lower half. Each one of them by their self, as millions, possibly billions, pressed forward on towards the bottom.
You slip into the idea of time itself. The twisting of grains of sand spinning themselves into your modern context of the idea of time. You think of a clock face. The ever faithful arms clicking out the time for you forever. The endless circle of gears rotating round and round clicking out moments one metal twist at a time. The clock explodes from behind and the gears and springs and grease are sent spiraling outwards and towards you. It's around and around and back again as they travel slowly in a slo-mo scene.
Thinking this helps see the inside of the fractal lifting procedure which is currently being applied to your person. Please do not be afraid. This is a fairly harmless procedure that we are conducting.
Please enjoy the music.
The drilling continues and burrows into your mind.
You've seen a fractal right? You know what I mean. The trippy spirally pictures. Hey maybe that black light poster your stoner ass roommate had in your apt in college. No, that conch shell you found at the beach, with its oceanic recordings whispered among its grooves. Nah, the shore lines themselves, the seas carving away at the earth in a rotating and repeating pattern.
Those are fractals?
Why sure! And what's even better is now you can see the fractal lifted from off the page of our known reality! Congratulations and thank you for choosing Tower of Brahma for your enlightenment needs.
There appears to have been a title that was completely scribbled out. Although obscured, we believe that from the impression on the page below it had read "CRUCIFIX A HIT SON".
Monday, July 6, 2009
The Tower of Brahma: Chapter 32 - the Widow's Son
06/13/07
I had a gun to kill my father. I brought it over one night that I stopped by for dinner. Delirious from the continuous bombardment of my senses from living in New York City; now I was home.
Sitting across from my father I knew he must die. That it was he who orchestrated my life so far. That he manipulated me and was grooming me to suit his mad plans.
I had no idea what those plans were but I shook off the veil he had his brother cast over my mind. I remembered sitting here at this table in the past, or is that happening now? Someone, white haired, yet young, is on my left speaking in slow concentrated syllables lulling me deeper into connected confusion.
They were babbling on about honoring secrets and I saw things before me that seemed commonplace yet complacently antagonistic. I sped up my internal dialogue and began telling myself a story about Agent Fenris and Agent Spider.
They went West to find a place where they could develop their talents. A place where they could reinvent themselves and set themselves up as kings. Alone together, they suffered the elements, braved the world, and found a kingdom. They shared a telepathic conference room where they formulated a strategy.
"Conquer the self my boy. We'll have a new one ready for you by the time you recall all this."
So, here I was, back in front of the man who turned me against myself and he was going to pay.
"I remember when you invited me here. I quit writing after the last time I visited."
He just looked at me. Empty. Was he even my real father? A plant? A brainwashed sucker forced to coerce me into going along with their diabolical plan. The gun was heavy in my lap.
"Why did you do it? What do you get out of this? God, say something!"
The gun slipped into my hands. My arm snapped into a locked position. Hammer cocked, trigger held, and yet no sign of anything in his face. He'd have to be held accountable. He must.
"You goddamned sonofabitch. This ends now. I won't be used as your pawn."
He stood up slow, pushing the chair back with a slight groan against the wood floors. Marionette muscle spasms jerked his body simulating life. I thought about pulling the trigger. About killing him, or this hollow shell of him.
"You'll never get my book. I just won't write it. Or I'll write it in defiance of all you stand for. Tear down everything that is structure and math and the mechanics of us. Chaos is my lord and I am here to deliver his wrath!"
Caress the trigger back, banging blasts of shells emptying themselves of all they once were. Closing the distance between us, friction scorching the specialized bullets, forging them into spears.
"I hate you!" I screamed. It resonated within the bare walls of my former home.
My father lie dead, hunched over the table, bleeding out like a stuck pig as the saying goes. I felt nothing, but wasn't numb. It was easy in the end. An afterthought as I cleansed my palate of the bitterness of my childhood.
I felt free, as if my back had burst open and wings had erupted forth from my pain. My nefarious enemy was now slain and my mission was complete. My mind was my own again. I had become a god of delicious apathy.
I awoke in the past, at the moment of hypnosis. I looked over at the fictioneer, as he referred to himself.
"You'll feel a bit disoriented for a few hours, but nothing a nap and some fluids won't wash away."
"You made me kill him."
"I'm not dead, son. I'm sorry. I mean brother."
I turned to my father's voice and saw that he was looking at me, smiling.
"I'll kill you. The future. My book...it all goes horribly wrong. They'll hate me in the end and persecute me. What you're asking me to do is to give up everything for this plan..."
"Just as I have, and he has...” he said motioning to the hypnotist. "We killed our own."
"But I killed you! It was a vision of the future, I only dream of the future!” my voice was flushed with a madman tremble.
"After today you won't remember much of what you saw. You'll know there's a list of people to find, a story that you'll need to tell your own way, and the core secrets of the universe we've crammed in that head of yours."
My dad glanced down at the Mason symbol in his hands. "As for my death, well, we'll see what comes. In the meantime, you are now free.”
The faint sound of someone counting down backwards was clashing against the trace memory of holding a gun in my hands. I swam in the true rage and hatred I needed to end the life of god and to begin the death of man.
I had a gun to kill my father. I brought it over one night that I stopped by for dinner. Delirious from the continuous bombardment of my senses from living in New York City; now I was home.
Sitting across from my father I knew he must die. That it was he who orchestrated my life so far. That he manipulated me and was grooming me to suit his mad plans.
I had no idea what those plans were but I shook off the veil he had his brother cast over my mind. I remembered sitting here at this table in the past, or is that happening now? Someone, white haired, yet young, is on my left speaking in slow concentrated syllables lulling me deeper into connected confusion.
They were babbling on about honoring secrets and I saw things before me that seemed commonplace yet complacently antagonistic. I sped up my internal dialogue and began telling myself a story about Agent Fenris and Agent Spider.
They went West to find a place where they could develop their talents. A place where they could reinvent themselves and set themselves up as kings. Alone together, they suffered the elements, braved the world, and found a kingdom. They shared a telepathic conference room where they formulated a strategy.
"Conquer the self my boy. We'll have a new one ready for you by the time you recall all this."
So, here I was, back in front of the man who turned me against myself and he was going to pay.
"I remember when you invited me here. I quit writing after the last time I visited."
He just looked at me. Empty. Was he even my real father? A plant? A brainwashed sucker forced to coerce me into going along with their diabolical plan. The gun was heavy in my lap.
"Why did you do it? What do you get out of this? God, say something!"
The gun slipped into my hands. My arm snapped into a locked position. Hammer cocked, trigger held, and yet no sign of anything in his face. He'd have to be held accountable. He must.
"You goddamned sonofabitch. This ends now. I won't be used as your pawn."
He stood up slow, pushing the chair back with a slight groan against the wood floors. Marionette muscle spasms jerked his body simulating life. I thought about pulling the trigger. About killing him, or this hollow shell of him.
"You'll never get my book. I just won't write it. Or I'll write it in defiance of all you stand for. Tear down everything that is structure and math and the mechanics of us. Chaos is my lord and I am here to deliver his wrath!"
Caress the trigger back, banging blasts of shells emptying themselves of all they once were. Closing the distance between us, friction scorching the specialized bullets, forging them into spears.
"I hate you!" I screamed. It resonated within the bare walls of my former home.
My father lie dead, hunched over the table, bleeding out like a stuck pig as the saying goes. I felt nothing, but wasn't numb. It was easy in the end. An afterthought as I cleansed my palate of the bitterness of my childhood.
I felt free, as if my back had burst open and wings had erupted forth from my pain. My nefarious enemy was now slain and my mission was complete. My mind was my own again. I had become a god of delicious apathy.
I awoke in the past, at the moment of hypnosis. I looked over at the fictioneer, as he referred to himself.
"You'll feel a bit disoriented for a few hours, but nothing a nap and some fluids won't wash away."
"You made me kill him."
"I'm not dead, son. I'm sorry. I mean brother."
I turned to my father's voice and saw that he was looking at me, smiling.
"I'll kill you. The future. My book...it all goes horribly wrong. They'll hate me in the end and persecute me. What you're asking me to do is to give up everything for this plan..."
"Just as I have, and he has...” he said motioning to the hypnotist. "We killed our own."
"But I killed you! It was a vision of the future, I only dream of the future!” my voice was flushed with a madman tremble.
"After today you won't remember much of what you saw. You'll know there's a list of people to find, a story that you'll need to tell your own way, and the core secrets of the universe we've crammed in that head of yours."
My dad glanced down at the Mason symbol in his hands. "As for my death, well, we'll see what comes. In the meantime, you are now free.”
The faint sound of someone counting down backwards was clashing against the trace memory of holding a gun in my hands. I swam in the true rage and hatred I needed to end the life of god and to begin the death of man.
Monday, June 29, 2009
The Tower of Brahma - 31 - hollow saints
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.
"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 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.
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