Sunday, August 5, 2012
Monday, April 23, 2012
The Laughter of Children, the Lost Silences and the Final Defeat Amidst the Reaving Scythe
I do not know what has come over me. A certain...dismal hatred of the breeding masses? Some human empathy grown inflamed and so diseased of pale, infirm, desultory rejection of that which pains me? Man, his utter vomitus of motive and deceit?
Of Conceit?
I find I cannot leave my halls.
My skrying bowl, wet, limpid of truth, placid of meaning. Yet it means nothing. Only a clear, uninhibited view from a cliff face upon nothing so much as empty distance and empty density.
The vacuousness of a vat of being. So much fat and plasma and existence as seen through a lens of time and space. No substance, no more than needs be to declaim the existence of a meteor shower in the path of a dead planet. What does it all mean? Nothing! Shapes and density and distance and physics all too surreal and scientific to effect an atom of emotion, a quantum of intelligent query, a sigma of serendipity, such that any living thing might feel the force of another living thing and recognize it as something more than an irritation...if not as a bane of its very existence. Certainly as rough but far more meaningless than the grain of sand that imagines itself a fucking pearl!
The lilim scream from their pool, and I shudder and wait.
Of Conceit?
I find I cannot leave my halls.
My skrying bowl, wet, limpid of truth, placid of meaning. Yet it means nothing. Only a clear, uninhibited view from a cliff face upon nothing so much as empty distance and empty density.
The vacuousness of a vat of being. So much fat and plasma and existence as seen through a lens of time and space. No substance, no more than needs be to declaim the existence of a meteor shower in the path of a dead planet. What does it all mean? Nothing! Shapes and density and distance and physics all too surreal and scientific to effect an atom of emotion, a quantum of intelligent query, a sigma of serendipity, such that any living thing might feel the force of another living thing and recognize it as something more than an irritation...if not as a bane of its very existence. Certainly as rough but far more meaningless than the grain of sand that imagines itself a fucking pearl!
The lilim scream from their pool, and I shudder and wait.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
My Milkshake Brings All the Boys to the Yard..
...and damn right, it's better than yours.
God, I hate that fucking song.
Spring has hit, officially, though my yard in particular is a miasma of new growth...a plague of life swarming with buds bursting to bloom insidious hues to attract every fly and bee already well into their work on my busily buzzing property.
Damn Shadow Clones! Far too superior a fertilizer. My Cat's dragon breath attack didn't help matters. Where as my neighbors are hovering about their porches enjoying the fine weather while their still half-dead grass rests at a wintery half-mast, I'm mowing a yard of grass that reaches high enough to tickle my...tickly spots...if you get me, an infernal host of mosquitoes (seemingly quite devoted to me) crown my every move. High noon has hit. The sun is some great spotlight focused into my conscience by a sadistic interrogator and I wonder, for the umpteenth time, what I have done lately to piss God off? Surely He's forgotten all the old stuff?
A choir of angels laugh their milky-white asses off. A fat cushy cloud shaped like a middle finger flutters over the noon-day sun and is gone.
Shadow meows from the porch, then makes himself quite at home in a little curl resulting in an instantaneous kitty nap.
I shove the mower this way and that. A tiny femur is thrown from the blades to the porch and Shadow finds himself awakened, with pain. And it serve you right ya little bastard!
I can feel all the heat of hell filling me, burning away what vestiges of humanity I have gathered to me like a sizzling anger that melts away the facade like so much paper blasted to ash in a nuclear holocaust. I must maintain, I have to maintain.
The mower dies and instead of screaming until the fire blasts my lips from my melting face I stop and I breathe, and I breathe a little more. My hands are balled tightly and my nails have skewered the palms all the way through to the wrists but I breathe a little more. I close my reddened eyes to the heat of the sun, the crawling tentacles of my neighbor's stares. I feel blood trickling down from my wrists to my knuckles and plinking a bass beat to the grass beneath but I ignore it...I ignore it. I gather all my will and...I maintain. Though my nails have turned to claws and pierced my own flesh I manage to cool down and chase away the worst of the anger. My face doesn't melt away. My demonic essence does not win out, leaving my carefully constructed human shell a lifeless hulk in the grass as I wreak havoc over the surrounding area.
I take one more deep breath, then I bend to the mower and pull the damned starter again. A round of cheers erupts from across the street.
The mower coughs itself back to life and I am shoving it again, back and forth, killing the grass I do most faithfully hope, or at the very least taming it for another day or three. The cheering onlookers begin to hoot.
I give them my most piercing eat-shit-and-live-to-eat-more-shit glare, giving a double take to a few in a crowd of white boys -- all gathered on a porch across the street...one of them has green hair, another has a green felt hat as tall as he is wide, all seem to be clutching (and toasting) bottles of Guinness. Jesus, son of Sam...is it St. Patrick's already? I yanked my eyes away from the Irish Cacophony and balled my fists yet again...damn it I must remember to retract my claws!...I noticed I stood, sweaty and irritable, behind my mower, completely and utterly naked.
My white-Tee modified to a warm weather wife-beater and jean shorts lay in a heap of smoking cloth somewhere behind me. They had suffered the wrath and heat of my earlier anger. My flesh--totally in tact and on display--had survived the onslaught. Breathing. Perhaps I should have calmed myself sooner, then perhaps I could have kept my bra and panties.
More hooting, cheers from the beer-addled boys across the street. Not a one was actually Irish. I could smell their blood on the wind, German descended everyone...except for one with a hint of a nigga in the wood pile, his skin tone much closer to mine than his compadres, though he chose to pass. There was no real fear of retribution, no actual belief in St. Patrick's teachings or, hell, even that the guy had actually existed, only a an alcohol fueled typical American bastardization. And I wasn't about to allow that particular St. Paddy to chase this snake outta Westwood!
I mowed my lawn and made a real show of it. There were at least two members of the group for whom I would make dreams happen later tonight--and I was hungry, ready. I mowed and I bowed and waved them all goodbye when I had done.
My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard. When the moon took center stage and the stars lined up to brighten his path three drunken bastards called upon me in dreams and I took them easy, slow, and...never minding the pleasant yeasty contact high.
God, I hate that fucking song.
Spring has hit, officially, though my yard in particular is a miasma of new growth...a plague of life swarming with buds bursting to bloom insidious hues to attract every fly and bee already well into their work on my busily buzzing property.
Damn Shadow Clones! Far too superior a fertilizer. My Cat's dragon breath attack didn't help matters. Where as my neighbors are hovering about their porches enjoying the fine weather while their still half-dead grass rests at a wintery half-mast, I'm mowing a yard of grass that reaches high enough to tickle my...tickly spots...if you get me, an infernal host of mosquitoes (seemingly quite devoted to me) crown my every move. High noon has hit. The sun is some great spotlight focused into my conscience by a sadistic interrogator and I wonder, for the umpteenth time, what I have done lately to piss God off? Surely He's forgotten all the old stuff?
A choir of angels laugh their milky-white asses off. A fat cushy cloud shaped like a middle finger flutters over the noon-day sun and is gone.
Shadow meows from the porch, then makes himself quite at home in a little curl resulting in an instantaneous kitty nap.
I shove the mower this way and that. A tiny femur is thrown from the blades to the porch and Shadow finds himself awakened, with pain. And it serve you right ya little bastard!
I can feel all the heat of hell filling me, burning away what vestiges of humanity I have gathered to me like a sizzling anger that melts away the facade like so much paper blasted to ash in a nuclear holocaust. I must maintain, I have to maintain.
The mower dies and instead of screaming until the fire blasts my lips from my melting face I stop and I breathe, and I breathe a little more. My hands are balled tightly and my nails have skewered the palms all the way through to the wrists but I breathe a little more. I close my reddened eyes to the heat of the sun, the crawling tentacles of my neighbor's stares. I feel blood trickling down from my wrists to my knuckles and plinking a bass beat to the grass beneath but I ignore it...I ignore it. I gather all my will and...I maintain. Though my nails have turned to claws and pierced my own flesh I manage to cool down and chase away the worst of the anger. My face doesn't melt away. My demonic essence does not win out, leaving my carefully constructed human shell a lifeless hulk in the grass as I wreak havoc over the surrounding area.
I take one more deep breath, then I bend to the mower and pull the damned starter again. A round of cheers erupts from across the street.
The mower coughs itself back to life and I am shoving it again, back and forth, killing the grass I do most faithfully hope, or at the very least taming it for another day or three. The cheering onlookers begin to hoot.
I give them my most piercing eat-shit-and-live-to-eat-more-shit glare, giving a double take to a few in a crowd of white boys -- all gathered on a porch across the street...one of them has green hair, another has a green felt hat as tall as he is wide, all seem to be clutching (and toasting) bottles of Guinness. Jesus, son of Sam...is it St. Patrick's already? I yanked my eyes away from the Irish Cacophony and balled my fists yet again...damn it I must remember to retract my claws!...I noticed I stood, sweaty and irritable, behind my mower, completely and utterly naked.
My white-Tee modified to a warm weather wife-beater and jean shorts lay in a heap of smoking cloth somewhere behind me. They had suffered the wrath and heat of my earlier anger. My flesh--totally in tact and on display--had survived the onslaught. Breathing. Perhaps I should have calmed myself sooner, then perhaps I could have kept my bra and panties.
More hooting, cheers from the beer-addled boys across the street. Not a one was actually Irish. I could smell their blood on the wind, German descended everyone...except for one with a hint of a nigga in the wood pile, his skin tone much closer to mine than his compadres, though he chose to pass. There was no real fear of retribution, no actual belief in St. Patrick's teachings or, hell, even that the guy had actually existed, only a an alcohol fueled typical American bastardization. And I wasn't about to allow that particular St. Paddy to chase this snake outta Westwood!
I mowed my lawn and made a real show of it. There were at least two members of the group for whom I would make dreams happen later tonight--and I was hungry, ready. I mowed and I bowed and waved them all goodbye when I had done.
My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard. When the moon took center stage and the stars lined up to brighten his path three drunken bastards called upon me in dreams and I took them easy, slow, and...never minding the pleasant yeasty contact high.
Friday, February 24, 2012
Shadow Clones
I can feel spring inching nearer with each passing day. Hasn't been much of a winter at all anyway. Grey days pass into sunny ones; temperatures fester at freezing only to leap-frog suddenly to the near 60's. Such is life in the Midwest. Such is life in hell. Hell was not designed to be anticipated, not promoted for its consistency and seasonably appropriate style and flair.
Tell me again how this is all about global warming. I kill you. This is the Midwest. Global warming is a phenomenon of continuous increase in surface temperature which has and will continue to warm the seas, melt glaciers and ice caps, and cause erratic changes in precipitation, and the on-going effect of your excesses will result in your intimate knowledge of the chaos that is hell, not a punch-line for every winter day that plunges below the freezing point. So say something more about global warning. I kill you. This is the Midwest, and hell has only begun to visit you.
I feel spring reaching, sending out its feelers and feeding on the abundance of sun, a strange winter to be sure, with tulips and crocus blooming far sooner than their due...I feel it. My cat twines about my itchy ankles, he feels it. He wants out. But I can't allow that as yet. My cat, my Shadow, black as night and twice as ornery, claws like talons and eyes the dragon-green of his ancestors (an ancestry, oddly, consisting of the rogue dragon or two...not that the average cat could survive such a union...Shadow's parentage is, odd, at the least, but he seems to enjoy the shape he has assumed these many years, so long as I add the correct amount of raw virgin flesh to his kibble) longs to stalk the wooded ambrosia of the tangled wood beyond the hood, where deer dance fearless for lack of hunters in the city limits and kids in gang colors pretend to the thrown of their older brothers, raping abandoned and soon to be demolished old houses on the Queen City side, dealing a little weed and nailing stray dogs to hidden trees along Sunset.
The Astral Plane has been indulgently silent. Ah, adverbs, how I loathe thee. However, the Astral Plane has been silent, in an indulgent way, and to hell with manuals and how-to's, when adverbs serve. I was tempted to unleash my Shadow on the wooded lots of the unusually silent hood, but for the sudden presence of...
Shadow Clones.
Shadow Clones. Not the many duplications of a Naruto but the silent choir of neighborhood cats - black cats, fat black cats lazily (there go those blasted adverbs!) lounging about my porch and yard, in quietly occult imitation of my shadow. But not my Shadow. As my Shadow seems to have intimated...thus his itchy urging to be outside.
I cannot allow this without a better understanding of what these Shadow Clones represent.
It may seem as nothing to you, casual blog reader...passerby on the great express that is our shared train ride to hell. But to one such as I, a yard full of Shadow Clones is enough to offer prudent pause. After all, I only just returned from a subtle trap buried in the majestic monotone of a common summoning...only barely survived the fallout of your average virgin haunting. I know when the universe is trying to tell me to watch my step.
So I watch.
And Shadow watches, from a convenient window sill, the edge of the slightly cracked door or from my shoulder as I mumble a tithe or two to my patron God of Chaos, hidden among the frail but visible pattern of odd winter branches in strong spring-like sunshine. The bastard whispers and disappears back to somewhere in the multiverse, and to hell with the asshole anyway, if Elric is so much more important. I watch and Shadow's claws remove another layer of flesh from my shoulder, aching to take on the crowd of Clones growing along the edge of death's winter grass that make up the front hill on my lawn.
They have stationed themselves along the walkway, along the side of my house, where the weeds grow a wild chaos and the neighbors scowl and wince. They have appointed a forward guard along the fallen tree in the back yard and scouts at either side, taking reconnaissance from the abandoned tires to the left and the neighbor's fence to the right. There are captains stationed before the warped garage door guarding civilian shadow females and litters hidden in the old and unused garage. I attempt a request to parlay from my kitchen window but it is answered by angry meows, claws, and at least one attempt to take the back door by force (until the rogue unit was called back angrily -- fucking adverbs!-- by its captain). At last, a delegation of Clones approached, with great caution, the back door to my kitchen.
I answered their call to negotiations in kind. I allowed my claws and my teeth full reign and invited my Shadow to assume a more...traditional...shape.
I can feel the subtle approach of Spring. Something about the early bloom of tulip and crocus in the yard, the way the trees - once skeletal and gleaming in a bony way now filling out in the boomtide of sun--fills the yard with shadow. I step out upon the porch and I hear the silence of the hood: distant police, an ambulance, someone honking their horn to get someone on the third floor of some some-place to come on and get going. My Shadow, fatter now, more complacent, purring to the hesitant noise of deer skimming the yard, chomping heartily on someone's crop of fern or hostas, meowing to me of cabin fever and the on-coming adventure of new life and new...
But I cannot forget the way he grew. The way his mahogany fur tensed, allowing layers of chitinous ebony scales to grow out from beneath its layers, fangs like great canines elongating to desperate scythes of a vast demon crop-master taking out the comparatively tiny stray kittens by two's and five's until a field of flesh blanketed the dead grass, slowly but decisively (adverb?) feeding the spring-thirsty crab grass into true life. Into the warmth of an odd February night, I looked upon green green grass and trees shocked into leaf production a month or two early.
And Shadow hastens no longer for the fields, but licks complacently at his own ass, as I know we all wish we could, because hey, I know I'd never leave the house if I could reach...with my own tongue.
Tell me again how this is all about global warming. I kill you. This is the Midwest. Global warming is a phenomenon of continuous increase in surface temperature which has and will continue to warm the seas, melt glaciers and ice caps, and cause erratic changes in precipitation, and the on-going effect of your excesses will result in your intimate knowledge of the chaos that is hell, not a punch-line for every winter day that plunges below the freezing point. So say something more about global warning. I kill you. This is the Midwest, and hell has only begun to visit you.
I feel spring reaching, sending out its feelers and feeding on the abundance of sun, a strange winter to be sure, with tulips and crocus blooming far sooner than their due...I feel it. My cat twines about my itchy ankles, he feels it. He wants out. But I can't allow that as yet. My cat, my Shadow, black as night and twice as ornery, claws like talons and eyes the dragon-green of his ancestors (an ancestry, oddly, consisting of the rogue dragon or two...not that the average cat could survive such a union...Shadow's parentage is, odd, at the least, but he seems to enjoy the shape he has assumed these many years, so long as I add the correct amount of raw virgin flesh to his kibble) longs to stalk the wooded ambrosia of the tangled wood beyond the hood, where deer dance fearless for lack of hunters in the city limits and kids in gang colors pretend to the thrown of their older brothers, raping abandoned and soon to be demolished old houses on the Queen City side, dealing a little weed and nailing stray dogs to hidden trees along Sunset.
The Astral Plane has been indulgently silent. Ah, adverbs, how I loathe thee. However, the Astral Plane has been silent, in an indulgent way, and to hell with manuals and how-to's, when adverbs serve. I was tempted to unleash my Shadow on the wooded lots of the unusually silent hood, but for the sudden presence of...
Shadow Clones.
Shadow Clones. Not the many duplications of a Naruto but the silent choir of neighborhood cats - black cats, fat black cats lazily (there go those blasted adverbs!) lounging about my porch and yard, in quietly occult imitation of my shadow. But not my Shadow. As my Shadow seems to have intimated...thus his itchy urging to be outside.
I cannot allow this without a better understanding of what these Shadow Clones represent.
It may seem as nothing to you, casual blog reader...passerby on the great express that is our shared train ride to hell. But to one such as I, a yard full of Shadow Clones is enough to offer prudent pause. After all, I only just returned from a subtle trap buried in the majestic monotone of a common summoning...only barely survived the fallout of your average virgin haunting. I know when the universe is trying to tell me to watch my step.
So I watch.
And Shadow watches, from a convenient window sill, the edge of the slightly cracked door or from my shoulder as I mumble a tithe or two to my patron God of Chaos, hidden among the frail but visible pattern of odd winter branches in strong spring-like sunshine. The bastard whispers and disappears back to somewhere in the multiverse, and to hell with the asshole anyway, if Elric is so much more important. I watch and Shadow's claws remove another layer of flesh from my shoulder, aching to take on the crowd of Clones growing along the edge of death's winter grass that make up the front hill on my lawn.
They have stationed themselves along the walkway, along the side of my house, where the weeds grow a wild chaos and the neighbors scowl and wince. They have appointed a forward guard along the fallen tree in the back yard and scouts at either side, taking reconnaissance from the abandoned tires to the left and the neighbor's fence to the right. There are captains stationed before the warped garage door guarding civilian shadow females and litters hidden in the old and unused garage. I attempt a request to parlay from my kitchen window but it is answered by angry meows, claws, and at least one attempt to take the back door by force (until the rogue unit was called back angrily -- fucking adverbs!-- by its captain). At last, a delegation of Clones approached, with great caution, the back door to my kitchen.
I answered their call to negotiations in kind. I allowed my claws and my teeth full reign and invited my Shadow to assume a more...traditional...shape.
I can feel the subtle approach of Spring. Something about the early bloom of tulip and crocus in the yard, the way the trees - once skeletal and gleaming in a bony way now filling out in the boomtide of sun--fills the yard with shadow. I step out upon the porch and I hear the silence of the hood: distant police, an ambulance, someone honking their horn to get someone on the third floor of some some-place to come on and get going. My Shadow, fatter now, more complacent, purring to the hesitant noise of deer skimming the yard, chomping heartily on someone's crop of fern or hostas, meowing to me of cabin fever and the on-coming adventure of new life and new...
But I cannot forget the way he grew. The way his mahogany fur tensed, allowing layers of chitinous ebony scales to grow out from beneath its layers, fangs like great canines elongating to desperate scythes of a vast demon crop-master taking out the comparatively tiny stray kittens by two's and five's until a field of flesh blanketed the dead grass, slowly but decisively (adverb?) feeding the spring-thirsty crab grass into true life. Into the warmth of an odd February night, I looked upon green green grass and trees shocked into leaf production a month or two early.
And Shadow hastens no longer for the fields, but licks complacently at his own ass, as I know we all wish we could, because hey, I know I'd never leave the house if I could reach...with my own tongue.
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