Hurt Me Daddy, for I Have Blogged

And so we come to the time when the hours cloak us ever-gently and evermore in creeping darkness. And the land immolates itself to create new seed and new issue for two seasons from now. But first must come the dying time. And we have seen this cycle before, in the lovely hourglass of waiting. Our feet still tread, though now we are so obscured that we can only see one foot in front of another. The whisper of those passed on and passed by cause us to reach out our hands in welcome, with slightly morbid thoughts of greeting a beloved from the Other Side. And I am able to see this in my flat mirror surface, though slightly concave, so not flat at all. And I see it in the crystal globe, or what they call the globe of the world. It has a taste, a smell and a feeling, all radiating out from the radio station of synaesthesia and Divine synechdoche. As above, so below. I see a vision of this constantly. In the time-kissed faces of you, in which aging makes a sketch of gradual death-mask. Now ...

And so we come here to the place of a thousand voices. I thought this was a necropolis, but every inch of it feels and sounds alive. There is something more sinister at work here besides the miserly claw of time. We know what fought your will to life. We know that sometimes, there are dualistic forces at work. When I first saw you, you were in the same room as we were. You led along the first lines of our thinking in this certain way. There were tiny lines, tendrils, connecting us. Arteries and nerves of this thing we call friendship. How do I know? How did we know? No one thought of the thousand stars because they were busy staring at the black curtain. Now you're a series of polaroids. Your face becomes etched ever more weakly, like a repetitious cliche. But who needs the world of old houses? Musty investments; this crumbling material we call life. I find it silly when I think about it, too. Now I am the old lady, writing about my irrelevancy, and you've had the last la...

How does it feel now? One foot in front of the other, walking on the path. I listen to and weigh all the doubts. I worry about my capacity to do what most people seem to do decently and naturally. People have not been granted much in the way of things sometimes. I don't really think there is just a way that things are inherently. I suppose that it's all perspective, all judgment, all subjective. I know that I am no more superior than the guy with the three beemers in his driveway or the bum on the street corner. We all do different things in this world, I suppose. My thoughts wander, my focus wanders. I come back to the path again. I evaluate and try to see if I have made the best decision. I am rarely assured of this. But I guess we do the best with the information we have at the time. I am keeping score. I make no lie of it. I know I am not in the place to judge, but we still must evaluate as best we can with the information we have.

I remember when they used to have personal ads in there. Someone seeks someone else. European. Mediterranean. Muscular build. For playtime. Loves fast cars. I always wondered what the people actually looked like. It was in the days before the false honesty of internet dating, I can tell you that. In the days before the Craigslist rape fantasy. I wondered how we were supposed to fully appreciate each other when we were shorthand paragraphs. N/S/Drugs. A/s/l? But that came later. I wondered about who was truly lucky enough to find this love there. In tiny, centimeter-by-centimeter squares. How hungrily pored over were they? What happened when they actually met? Did they last? Were the people crazy? The woman or man who wondered "Were you waiting for me"... Was it the same kind of bottom-feeder we are used to nowadays? What of judgment? What of sex? Did anything go? Does our love become the same kissed-away time capsule pieces of paper, biodegrading into the earth years later? W...

Look at this. It's a picture of me, 12 years old, completely sullen. Knowing that someday I would break out of that, but not knowing when. How many hours had I spent waiting in purgatorial corridors? Touching decay, befriending dark walls. I thought I had heard it whispered, once, that my time would come. And now these hands beckon me, stepping through Time's tunnel, strangely seeing that light that everyone claims is there when they are knocked unconscious. These people have it all marked with me. But there was no script, no plan for this. I walked it on my own. I walked until I stopped to embrace people on the way. This was whispered to me, once, but I mostly ignored it. Who knew that I would get my peace, my happiness, that one day I would be equaled in those who poured themselves out to the world? But it happened. What was whispered became true. I remember when people used to tell me "You should smile more." I have finally started doing that. There is sun on my fa...

She was not new to going to strange mens' rooms. But this was different and mildly silly. "You know, I expected him to be down here in the lobby." "Yeah, this is kinda shady..." she chuckled. Tim walked up to the concierge's desk. "I'm looking for a Mr. W. Svenson." Jake shifted his weight. He wasn't usually here at this hour. His eyes met hers and there was a scared, uncomfortable moment. Wasn't she the one who was always going around with that guy who lived in 312 and all sorts of other men? Jake cleared his throat. "Ok, one moment." He called up. "Mr. Svenson? You have some guests in the lobby to see you." A few seconds. He hung up. Another man was in the elevator when they got in. She and Tim giggled at the awkwardness. Considering her job, she should have learned to ignore that sort of thing by now, like smelly gym socks in a corner somewhere, but it was just too random. "So you think I should s...

"Shit. Shit shit shit shit," cursed Jake. He threw his pen away from his drawing across the desk and ran outside. The bum clearly had a head wound. It was bleeding a hell of a lot. He was completely laid up on his back. Pupils did not seem to be rolling back in his head. He was just out cold, with open eyes. And bleeding. "Hi, 911? It looks like there's a transient passed out on the sidewalk connected to our property. He appears to have a really terrible head wound." Jake gave them the address. He hated dealing with crisis situations, though he had to do it on a fairly regular basis. It seemed like 15 minutes before the ambulance got there. He fumbled with the crumpled-up pieces of paper and rosary in his pocket. Jake felt ineffectual. The bum seemed to be coming to on his own as the medics showed up. They tried to get his information and tried to get him to talk straight. Eventually they hauled him away. Jake shook his head and shuffled back inside to his...

She closed her eyes and cocked the gun as he strained and moaned. It sometimes took a lot for her not to laugh at inopportune moments. The alarm went off. "Time's up, fuckhead," she said with a brotherly chuckle. He lay there panting. ---------- The man in the fuschia suit was always outside smoking. Jake had seen him countless times that weekend. "Who the fuck wears a fuschia suit," he muttered to himself behind the desk. He would put money on the fact that this guy was a tweaker. He couldn't tell what his age was. Jake went back to his sketching. This time it was a strange, Boschian fish-bird that had been emerging. He wondered about the symbolism. He'd always liked Bosch's art and had wondered about all the alchemical mysteries in it. Sometimes during the graveyard hours, he'd play solitaire, or flick each card in the deck across the room by squeezing it vertically between his thumb and index finger until it snapped out. Jake always ...

She walked up to the counter. "I need a room for the night." "Sure." John took out his credit card. Jake processed everything, knocking his doodlings off of the desk accidentally. She stared, looking distant. "Room 312." Jake handed over 2 sets of keys. -------------- Jake listened to the quiet of the late night and the noise seeping in from the restaurant. He heard drunken laughter and a man squealing and giggling, high-pitched. He exhaled in and out sharply. It had been overcast earlier that day and outside it had felt heavy and humid. There was something unusually heavy about everything at that moment. She walked into the lobby, still wearing her coat. "Excuse me, do you happen to have a cigarette, by any chance?" "No. Sorry." He smiled a little but felt afraid. It was late. "Thanks, man." She briskly walked out the lobby door, with purpose. There was something strange and familiar about her. She smel...

Ever since day one I wanted to make rock n' roll. I guess there is a difference between being "just a fan" and being committed. But frankly, I always doubted myself because of my bad pitch. Luckily it's the kind of thing you can work out with hard labor, listening, thinking. I doubted because I wondered if it was some hard-won LaLaLand fantasy that I was clinging to as I rapidly skated towards age thirty, happy-go-lucky and broke. There's no use in trying to pretend that I have common sense. But I do sometimes know how to keep a beat. I make rock n' roll with my body now; I always have. Doubt is the enemy of art. It's like speaking a foreign language; you have to be prepared to look stupid. Some people are "go go go" from the first minute, and those people have to be careful that they don't burn out. We all know someone who did now. We all have that embarrassing and heartbreaking not-so-secret. But it's time now, to plug in the amp and ma...

I envy you. I can't wait to leave. Last night I saw you etched in these engraved outlines. It was strange, you were a painting and two-dimensional, but also real. Maybe they were taking you away to put into the giant storage-box of the Universe. Strangely, I understood. Down here we still have nothing left but faith. The picture was fluttering out of our hands. "You don't know how it feels," everyone says. "You have no claim. You have no right." I think that my family is the only one that has the audacity to laugh death in the face. Some peoples' love throws me into more of a rage right now. We will not be placated. We will not be consoled. Our anger is righteous. Our anger comes from love. I never really knew you. We always think of those who leave with selfishness. Maybe my hated blood is right. Maybe you are better off.

I saw this woman in a dream last night. She smelled like lilies and lavender. "Have you? Do you?" she asked. "Only yes" I said. "I'm so happy that my children are here as I walk down the pathway." "I know." I smiled. "This is just like they have said it. Opening a new door." "It is sad to see the decay of the things of this earth." I said. "I am the resurrection and the life, I make those who slumber wake, I give body anew. I take away the sins of this world and the sorrow of decay. With me you will find eternal peace. Mine is a teaching of peace." She turned, in her lace-hemmed dress, with a smile, and walked on. There was no harsh light, but it was grey and soft, like a silent movie. The purple-gray of eyelids. "Follow me through the grey door." I follow. This time she was young and a crone at the same time, her hair changing from blonde to white. "Nothing is permanent. Never is my absence perman...