November 5, 2011

Tick, Tock

I awake this morning with a disturbing feeling that I am not quite myself. A common enough occurrence, certainly, but this time the impression is not dissociative – that of being “other” or alien – it is a distinct and unshakeable sense that I am somebody else in particular. That I am – to be specific – hip hop impresario-turned-actor/entrepreneur Sean “Puffy” Combs.

Stopping only to reach for my spectacles, I leave the house in a hurry, my addled morning thoughts beginning to coalesce around a fully formed idea: Tonight, I shall make my mark.

But such a bold endeavor requires careful preparation. Hence, today’s agenda:

  1. Deploy whiskey mouthwash (I am honest enough with myself to know that, whence I intend to go tonight, it is unlikely that I will ever return).
  2. Obtain professional grooming, with specific attention to my feet. My feet, I say!
  3. Hide the shame of my nakedness with every single individual item in my wardrobe – my garments and my finery.
  4. Entertain telephonic attentions (amorous) from male suitors. Telephonic.
  5. Without concern for my comfort or well-being, expose my person to the cold night air.
  6. Fill my ears and feed my mind with the music of my heart.
  7. Arrive at social events, one after the other (but remain, always, an outsider).
  8. Drink to forget.

Note to self: Keep moving until the friction causes electricity.
Note to the musicians: Play louder! For tonight, we go to war, and we will not rest until the rosy glow of dawn blesses our victory. Time may pass, yes, but what use have we for keeping time when we can keep company? The revels of this night shall never end. Never.

Paradoxically, I have no real obligations or worries, but I do have an abundance of alcoholic beverages on my person, which are themselves both an obligation and a concern. And I am destitute. I am penniless and broken, but I am present in myself.

Now, the men come – compelled no doubt by my (outward) confidence. But unless their faces are wrinkled and drawn – broken in a thousand places by the excesses of reckless youth; carious and worn, with pouting lips and sunken eyes like those of Sir Michael Philip Jagger, lead vocalist of The Rolling Stones – then I have no time for them. They hold no interest for me.

Perhaps I have not made myself clear. Picture this:

A wild, orgiastic beat drives us into a state of ecstasy. Crowds of men reach, acquisitively, for my genitals, but I rebuff them with increasing violence. As we begin to give way to the pounding of the drums and the irresistable allure of darkness and chaos, the authorities arrive without warning and attempt, desperately, to hold back the massive storm of flesh and rage and flesh and music that threatens, no – that promises – to envelop us all forever…

Now, the party don’t start ’til I walk in.

July 24, 2009

I believe I can fly.

I genuinely believe, with the full force of conviction, that I can float in the air and propel myself through the sky by waving my arms around.

I also believe that (for me and me alone) the aether is a tangible thing. That I can actually reach out and grab onto the air as one would a door handle, or a baseball bat.

Worse yet (and this is where my unique condition devolves from erroneous fantasy into pathological obsession), I am utterly incapable of thinking about anything else. I think about this every single night of my life. The days are no different. I am forever cogitating on this one idea – turning it over in my mind, analyzing every aspect of it, gnawing away at it until I can no longer separate the concept from the dim reality of my existence. It consumes me.

Not only do I have feathered flaps of skin attaching my arms to the rest of my body, but the mere act of raising my arms and exposing these flaps to the elements will allow me to suddenly and surprisingly glide through the air. To escape, from you, from my troubles. From this place.

Further, it is my unshakable conviction that I am able to rise majestically into the air in an easy, fluid manner that gives no appearance of strain or effort. When I envision this in my mind, it seems to me not (as I have described) like flying, but more like propelling myself through some kind of a wide, inviting doorway. On my legs.

Which, now that I think about it, really seems a lot more likely.

Nonetheless, I believe I can fly.

I believe I can fly.

I believe I can fly.

 
"All significant truths are private truths."
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Once the executive branch of a thriving government, I am now a lonely wanderer, floating rudderless on a sea of discontent. Or a swamp. A swamp of malaise. A slough of despair, bitches. Rudderless.