OBIJ - Taste of Time

Wednesday AM From [I'll take what's real] Yeti {yeah, but I thot you were dead} [bring up the lights]

blood and hate
and black and grey
lovely words and faded days
the sound of snow and the taste of glass
the smell of breaking skin
this is just too easy. No wonder it sucks.
------
Levendis(c) 1993 Mattel Inc.

It's 4:32 as I get into the small cab of my small truck and sit down and smell the hot, sweat-soaked upholstery, the old cigarette ashes, and the industrial pine scented tree hanging from the rear-view mirror. My clothes add to the rich, sour smells; the combination of sweat, bad cologne and coffee grounds that are in my shirt, in my apron, in my pocket.

I turn the ignition over and pull out of my usual parking spot and start driving, listening to the orgainized, routine schedule of noises and voices that pours out of the small Korean radio in my dash. It's an illusion, a lie that their bathing me in . Telling me that there is newness and excitment happening every hour, that the world is changing and I should pay attention to it. But I don't. I know they are lying the same way I knew my big brother lied about the tooth faerie. I felt my father's h and under the pillow, I knew. But I would repeat the lie to any wide-eyed child if he asked me if the Tooth Faerie really came and collected old teeth -- it's too damn much of a reflex. The world isn't changing, it's churning over the same events and act ions, hoping no one will notice that the same things juggled about aren't new or exciting.

I'm on the freeway now, and the drone from the radio is no more noticeable to me than the whirring and whooshing of the cars on all sides of me. Nothing's changing, and I got on the wrong road somewhere. I'm travelling down the wrong path. And as t hat realization sinks in, a panic swells up in me and I start feeling like I can't sit still any more, like I have to get out of my car and run as fast as I can; in any direction, as long as it's away.

But I don't. I sit there and I push it down inside of me; I squelch it and smash it into a crevice inside me where it won't get back out for a while. I stare, letting my focus go and drift off on a straight, fixed line of vision. I know it's not a smart thing to do at 62 mph, but I don't care. I even have my legs crossed, no where near the all-important brake and gas pedals. If the small brown Ford sedan in front of me slams on his brakes, so be it. I'll let it happen and I might even smile abou t it. It would change me. It would be change. Nothing happens, though. I drive and I drive, barely conscious anymore of the freeway in front of me. I'm letting all this shit pour out of my mind, and letting it drift out into my field of vision and away; mulling it over as it passes before me.

I turn the radio off. It's keeping the flow of thought from happening the way I want; it's injecting reality into my self-obsessed, absurd chain of pointless realizations. I want to think and think and think until nothing is left in me, until I'm an empty husk; until all the thoughts are gone and I can settle into a comforting numbness.

I'm home now. I walk through the front door with as much attention as a sleep walker, dropping a scattered trail of work clothes, change and car keys on any surface that I see -- chairs, counter tops, sofas. And I plop down into my chair, the one th at hasn't moved since I last plopped down into it yesterday, and the day before, and the day before... By now, usually, the stream of pent-up thoughts have about played themselves out, I can count on a couple more minutes of self-styled tragedy then it s tops, almost on cue. I can sit in my chair, and think nothing; be nothing. The world becomes as trivial as the bottle cap on the floor beside my feet, from when I was drinking wine coolers the night before. I can sit here and feel nothing, do nothing, forget.

Not today. Everything is going full-bore, raging on in spite of my need for emotional oblivion. Those damn thoughts are still pouring out of me, spilling onto the computer table, the keyboard -- I could spray them on the walls just by staring at the m; my eyes are gushing hopelessness. Dammit. I take a breath and close my eyes. The thoughts fill my blank, black interior like multicolored dye dropped in a dismally-barren goldfish bowl. I open my eyes again. Shit.

I stand up. I can't sit; it's not the panic this time, but I can't not feel. It's out of control now, I just want it all to stop, to let me off, to detach myself from it and stand back and watch my animated corpse spit out all of that mental mish-ma sh like a clockwork Hamlet on some Disneyland ride. All I want now is out of my self. I'll be anything. Let me be that book, that dog food bowl, let me be anything but what I am now: a spring that's been compressed too much, that's unleashing all that repression, denial in a dizzying array of blurred angst, of patchwork melodrama, of sampled cries for help.

I go into the bathroom and put my head in the sink and turn the cold water on. I'll drown those thoughts with a little undeniable stimulation. Shit. The water's frigid and I want to pull my head back out, but I don't. I sit there, I take it. And for that moment, the thoughts are gone; the coldness froze them like a flash blizzard.

I almost grin and take my head out of the sink. Then I make the mistake of looking up into mirror. Half-naked, wet, dismal. I winced when I took the reflection of myself in, beaming off that mirror like the truthfulness of a child who's never seen the grotesque before.

His reflection looked over the words carefully, then walked in to light a cigarette on the stove. He thought of several possible tracks which could be replayed for the alter-image, discarding them as casually as they had occured to him. Finally he cru shed out his cigarette and nodded in aproval.
------
Levendis(c) 1993 Mattel Inc.

she tells me that she cannot have who she wants but who is it that that I am not? some contest of constants between my shadow and my self, winning is not part of the game. the winner is the loser same as every time before. the competition between the main and the sublime turns to the games of the blind smashing the lame. bruises in principle the foundations of the analogous redemption. fiery prometheus is in chains of charcoal self imolation.

and my last five seductions ended with my own hand consolation of self love. from the most recent into the history of my emptiness, she has what she had no more but had me before. she is still in love with another in another place. she never falls in love with nice guys for in understanding they fail to feel the security of armour against viciousness. she has found another more alike to her falling reincarnation of body and hallucination. she has in interest lacked interest in the worry of my desire c onstantly worrying her to touch me.

five futures that future forgives them, but present troubles condemn instead of them me to fabulous dreams that fail. the future gives them the romantic ending to my no exit escape.

five seductions, two containing love, in commerce with nothing above I trade the memory for release, but like a circus the three rings entangle the five of me in romantic dreams of angels and failed futures with incubi.

none of them I shall ever touch again, knowing that I am unclean I leper toward the failure of my own model of honor when I reach toward them

one of five I have held in my head, her wings beating against my fluttering eyelids. her feathers replaced some other of the five only some time ago.

he's sitting there with his eyes half closed, looking off into some distant thought

he's stumbling over words I don't think he can really mean
and tripping over concepts I know he can't feel comfortable to confront

'I never wanted to 'FUCK' you. Not like when I looked at blah blah blah
or when I look at blah blah blah... sure I'd sleep with her. Damn,
she has a nice body, and there's this one girl I used to date here
I bet I could get something from her....
but I never wanted to just "FUCK" you, I care about you'

Sometimes I feel you're a some valiant night for the unnamed lady
and all she has to do is put her picture in your face
and you'd swear all up and down to her glory

only to replace the picture 5 minutes later if she won't
let you in (ehem) her 'door'

'not this, not this' is all I can say,
I know no other way to search for agape.
------
puellae pulchurae sunt / cetera desunt

your actions don't ring truth
and your words drip with dishonesty
but you can close your eyes and pretend

your intensions are real
YOU ARE ACTING, oh what a good actor you are
but when you're put on the stage

an actor I am, yes.
but something you may not have guessed:
an actor isn't playing lies
but fills with truth foreign lines.
I'll close my eyes and wish
my image and my self could be switched
so that what you see would really be me.
the horror is that what you take as lies
is really part of me, for in me it resides,
but that there is more to me than that
and that is what would create more hate
than anything that I could ever do
externallly that you're attracted to,
would be to show you my true insecurity
that truth that is to you lies you surely
would miss if it were gone
and your disappointment leaves me alone
with my truth: you'd rather live with half-truths
than to ever know of me anything more than half-truths.
------
puellae pulchurae sunt / cetera desunt

"just out of spite
i confess i've ruined three lives...
...and I didn't care til I found out that one of them was mine"

John Griogair Bell - Arlecchino Malbenvolio

“Clown with a Bad Attitude”

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