I remember very few details. It was night, and I was staying overnight at a House for reasons unknown to me (perhaps I was too gone to leave). I didn’t even know the owner of The House. My mind fills in the holes…. I am pretty sure I arrived here with my brothers, and I think I was told that The House was one of brother’s friends’ place. For some reason, I found the environment unimportant up until a certain point. But what was that point? And who was I then? I was surely not the me that had arrived. Half of me was asleep, passed out in a haze of acid-splatter candy-colored-flavored frequencies of Hendrix and Morrison. The other half was me, and the me that filled the sleeper’s void was a new one.
I had regained a kind of consciousness in the screened-in, renovated patio area. The dark of the night sky told me is was well into the early morning hours but still a while off until dawn. My movements getting to my feet were slow, like fighting weighted balloons on my limbs and peering through petroleum-smeared goggles. I could function, but I was wobbly, breaking into a million pieces and fluttering back together in a fraction of a second. The motion lights in the back yard were on. I don’t remember when or in what succession they turned on. I just knew that something moved close enough to The House to trigger all of them.
As I walked clumsily to the screen door to get a better look outside, I noticed that not many people were on the patio with me, and the few that were had crashed. I was the only awake and the only one to bear witness to whatever it was that was moving outside. Peering out into the yard, I didn’t see anything, not even shadows. I was in full observation mode with no fear in me, just intrigue. While I was searching, I was hit with vague impressions or memories. I had no idea from where or who I was receiving them.
I saw colored paper lanterns, intoxicated Asians, fake gold decorations and numerous incarnations of The Dragon. Was this a Chinese New Year celebration? Music and spoken word mingled so I could not make sense of anything I heard. There was a strange feeling that seemed to loom over the party. The people that seemed not to notice the feeling ended up either leaving the party or falling asleep. Those that were left in the atmosphere showed signs of discomfort or uneasiness. Many did not speak of it at all, but tried to forget or ignore it. During this time, I had become a little more interested in finding out what was going on… was something here, affecting this room? My eyes scanned the yard of The House while my mind scanned the scene in my head. I felt the aire in the yard similar to the one over the room. I saw nothing with my eyes, but images of fire-breathers grew in my head. I took notice of someone toward the edge of the room that I had not seen amongst the louder festivities before the room had cleared a bit. The person sat quietly alone with his/her hair in front of most of its face. Were they rocking slightly? I saw a compilation of people in the person, some particular faces came out more than others. At this time my body had mimicked the scene in my mind; I found myself physically closer to the other corner of the room, diagonal from the screen door. I was looking into an empty corner and a compiled persona simultaneously.
Mentally we had a conversation. I felt my desire to find out “what IT was” (whatever my attention had drawn to.. the feeling, the aire, the creation of tension and unease). This persona likened the IT to a Dragon, but not the Eastern Dragons or Western ones even. IT took the form of a Dragon, but was not a Dragon.
“You’re chasing a dragon that will never help you,” the persona said aloud to me through stringy black hair. I knew they had experience.
I took this comment, knowing that the persona was speaking from experience. I did not respond with a comment, but with action. I dropped my interst in the Dragon immediately, determining that whatever IT was, IT was after whoever allowed it access to themselves. I was not about to end up like this emptiness in the corner. As soon as I had made the decision, the scene in my mind vanished, and I awoke in another part of The House.
I had been slumbering in quilts and sleeping bags on hardwood floors. The TV was on, some Asian action movie was playing in the background. Lights were on all through The House though it was still ~4AM. I heard a lot of noise from upstairs: music, talking, coughing, and walking. I knew the sounds were from my brothers and their friends in one of the bedrooms. Looking around, I saw that some people were still around me asleep or half-asleep on the floor or couches.
I was slightly dazed and disoriented, wondering what had happened in the last couple hours. Looking down, I found a pouch. I instinctively knew it was mine though it resembled nothing I have in waking life. The pouch was solid but was able to change shape, rotating from a tree stump to a small metal box to a card-holder to a glitter snowglobe with a faery statue inside. The items contained within it are still vague to me, but I can remember that they were rare, important and magical.
I heard rapping on the front door so I promptly hid my “pouch” before checking the peephole. Two cops were at the door. I answered, figuring they were called on account of the noise and that I would be able to placate their worries with reasoning with the boys upstairs. When did I become mom or Wendy? Both the cops were friendly enough and seemed to be more annoyed with being called for such a task rather than upset with the party. I was sure there was no problem… but then all 3 of us smelled something… definitely pot, maybe some other smoke as well, coming from upstairs. While they were fine ignoring the possibility of drugs a minute ago, their faces became stony at the smell.
“Ok, ma’am, we have to come inside now.”
In the room I had been sleeping in, there were 2 full glass cases of pipes and bongs next to another glass case of flasks and martini glasses. Strange novelty and antique items were interspersed within the glass cases and posters of old horror flicks, rock bands and Betty Page hung from ceiling to floor. The whole set-up conveyed an aire of seediness that the cops were very perturbed about. They asked whose House it was. When I claimed not to know, they became suspicious. They attempted to hold me responsible for the contents of The House and all the activities within.
I fought their accusations without pinning others responsible. The last pieces I remember were the cops trying to interrogate me while I kept the pouch hidden.
Submit to or conquer the disorientation.
I feel the pressure in my ear canal. One side is a tighter seal than the other, and I know that the neon orange silicon putty is attempting a morning escape.
Utter half-coherent sentences while trying to establish or maintain balance on groggy footing.
Whimsical thoughts seduce me as my eyes pass over desired DOings. Bed = more dreaming (Recall the pieces… fragmented, disjointed, evading chronology. ) Ooh water. (Damn, I missed them… almost had it.) Sink = initiation of renewal. Mirror = encountering the ever-so-persuasive 2D. (Hello, Me. And how are we today?) This can go a number of ways: 1. fog-screen of persistent disorientation, 2. initiation of critical mind-chatter, 3. ignition of observational mode, 4. begining of a nondescript “Day,” 5. just acceptance, 6. unjust acceptance, 7. untitled acceptance, 8. indifference, 9. amusement or fear of potential indentity crisis, 10. care-free enstatement of pretend.
Shower = renewal ritual, detox, reset, comfort, Water Mother
12-20 ounces of caffeine-delivering warm beverage while going 60 mph as my mind whisks by the trees and green. (How much longer will these species survive, and how many are non-indigenous, invasive species? Is that how they describe us?)
“I’m fixing a hole where the rain gets in
and stops my mind from wandering
where it will go…”
A tone more ethereal than the original, dub cuts the reins.
Falling out a hole in the sky, I land with eyelids half-drawn under fluorescent lights and biosafety hoods. These are my hands in latex working with small life forms, hated because they are cancer. They are not like us; they don’t choose what they are. They are not like us; they don’t have a conscience. Motions are mechanical, and the sequence of events is routine enough to allow a piece of myself to float among the clouds.
A seemingly barren landscape of tile, biohazardous waste, machines and incubators is the quiet of the morning, hidden away from the hot thick of a sun’s revenge. Metal and concrete bang and mingle loudly outside my window as I sit in the ever-familiar, pink, broken chair. I don’t twirl anymore; it makes me sick.
The inbox has been sleeping recently, thankfully. It relinquishes my attention to scour websites and distract myself from not-so-imperative tasks for not-so-close deadlines. I am already bargaining with myself for afternoon freedom and dreaming of projects that afford me repose, hope and continual creative stimulation.
Bargain time spent in less-than-desirable environments to do important, analytical, detached work with justification for eloping to comfortable environments to do as my whim dictates.
Life is a series of rooms. Once I heard it, I saw it. I prefer the room in which to work to be uncrowded and uncluttered, more full of ideas and discussion than it is people. The room is constantly changing, moving as the inhabitants do. When I see it expand so that we are smashed up against opposing walls though still feeling cornered, yeah, I fucking opt out til reconstruction is agreed upon. When our rooms are seemingly effortlessly portable, fluid and forever-present, yeah, I’m in. There are still gonna be holes in the skies and minds. Such is life. Tunnels out and in, zippered pouches of space-time, blebbing and introduced bubbles… we make peace with our surroundings as they make peace with us (or not)… we change the environment; we change ourselves; we change others (or not)… we DO or we ARE (or ARE NOT).
There is so much.
Locate food source. Refuel. Flip switches to move on.
In the chaos of calls and chatter,
Amidst the unspoken assumption of agreed-upon terminology,
Experiencing the dissolution or distillation,
As symbols break apart piece by piece to reconvene as they Will,
like a blind man lost among mystic music of a psytrance dance party…
as babes that seek to touch without discerning familiarity from novelty…
with(in/out) Our Selves and Our Vessel…
a drip-down through the aether to prisms from the filters of the channels
with the splash of splatter color dances in tie-dye fractal glitter bubbles
Somehow our human (reptilian… “higher”… poet) brain
in the Bedlam, Discord, Absurd, Limitlessness
It’s raining again.
I am wearing my brother’s shirt; it wears like a blanket.
Rainy days are good days for coffee.
I leave it unbuttoned, but pull it criss-cross closed in front of my chest.
Coffee is the incentive for getting out of the house on a day like today. (Still yet I sit.)
I wore my brother’s shirt a lot when my tattoo was healing; it is the most comfortable shirt I have. It reminds me of him.
My nose awaits the aroma of the brew.
The pattering of the rain lulls me into alpha state.
This shirt would be wonderful to sleep in.
I see bikers greet each other on the road, and it makes me wish I had a Harley at times.
Sometimes I key into imagery in art that is not the subject or focus, and I wonder if the artist placed the image there with intent or if it is there at all. Our eyes often see what they desire or what they Will.
In a sober mind-frame, I can participate without in-depth observance. When I am in other states, I cannot help but notice, see, take notes. I try not to feel like I am being judgmental when I catch a glimpse of a piece or side of someone that they seem to try to hide or cover. People’s words, actions, expressions, and mannerisms betray their ruse… as we can betray Our Selves at times.
Slyest Fiend / Defy: Lets Sin / Dies: Sent Fly / Ends Fey List
The composition broken, rearranged and reassembled may bear harsh refractions, but it is all the same material. The materials are only the beginning; the structure, order (or lack thereof) as well as the coniditions and the ability to perceive and understand can drastically alter the outcome or result ( additionally, the message/intent sent and/or received).
Sometimes I go for creative writing prompts. So that I can find words in my head that are not my own but ~sound~ brilliant, oozing with contrived emotion, thick affectation, and obvious and overdone themes.
I hover by his ear while charcoal-etched skeletons play poker in the side of my head… one has the Ace of Hearts. *is not the Queen of Hearts* (just so we are straight.)
The blinks are slow with weighed lashes, under the abundance of holiday light; echoes reverberate at their every flutter.
The still frames of the mind are odd slices through time. Data can be acquired from all slices; what seems to matter most to the observer is his own interpretation of it. What does it all (Mean? & Heavy vibrates with an aspect of the 8.) Twist and turn around another riddle. Without The Whole are the parts absurd? Or orphaned? The FINDING is The Task. FIND: 33 Eternal Life. FINDING: 63 Centering/The Present.
We find our voices… from the same fountain, a different vein or funnel.