I sat cold and alone. Hidden in a sleeping colossus. Waiting.
In the darkness, everything is muted and vibrant which shades of blue. Blood is made black, all the rich red drained away until you're left with its absence. And still it is vibrant, slick and shiny rich in the light of the moon.
The beach stretches in a seemingly endless way. Huts nestled into the rich lush tropical foliage fade away. No longer loud in their arrays of browns against an array of eye catching greens, they whisper in the night. Somber grays and stoic blues. This leads the optical illusion that perhaps there is only you. Only you and that great wide world. The wilderness behind you. The stretching maw of the ocean, lapping at the shore.
That soft sand, rich and creamy in the light of the sun is hushed. Cool and pearlescent, each step is carefully taken. Delicacy seems required. No birds call. No wildlife screeches. No insects hum.
Maybe this isn't the life you wanted. Maybe this isn't the path you chose. But now, its all you have left to you. A tropical paradise, abandoned and abhorred. Vibrant is the pulse of the sea. Luscious and light in the bask of the full moon, staring into the depths is like watching a deep teal colored night light painted dark with silhouettes of the animals going about their lives. At first it seems inviting. Schools of fish. Flickers of turtles and sting rays. And somewhere inside you know that this is merely a warm welcome. The fervor and flash of an rendezvous you've already agreed to.
The first glimpses skirt the edges in fleeting flashes. But you know they are coming. You know they are there. The hard packed sand beneath passes quickly, marking a clear trail of where you were. The history of where you've been. In one cool sweep she washes it away. No trace. No memory. The sand is always one salty kiss from a clean slate.
The ocean is cool enough to be tempting, and warm enough to seduce. The silhouettes pass by you now, rolling you into their dance. You pass through it all. And the sharks, they swarm in closer. Greater in number and more menacing in their lurking passes. This is why you've come. Perhaps there was no destiny greater than this. Maybe you were never meant to be anything more. If everyone is a whore for something, than maybe whores have something. Maybe it is easier to give pieces of yourself away than to have them torn. And if you cannot rise above. If you cannot cater to your enemies. Perhaps it is a greater gesture to lend yourself to the feeding frenzy.
Nothing hurts as badly as the first scar, and all other pain is fleeting.
A false name. A lie. A sinister practical joke at the expensive of whosoever sought this prize. And sure as where treats are tricks are soon to follow. Perhaps the man who owned her was mad, or perhaps he had been spurned by her. The stories were many and each of them tinged with inklings of truth, and in the end if you took bits and pieces from them, along with time, you could puzzle together the legend. Whatever could be said of the man, one thing was true – he was nearly as empty as she was.
However, where his had been a slow withering from corrupt morals, a lack of ethics and a seriously skewed set of values; hers had been taken by his whim. As if in an ironic twist of fate, he was aptly named by fate. Mr. Trick. Whether his first or last or something in between, Trick was the official name on his birth certificate. An ill omen that cast a shadow over his family until he had crawled away from their all to bright and eager socially acceptable world too a slimy darker one where he could reign supreme. Often the worst nightmares are the ones that we wake to.
Sorrow is all consuming if you let it
Floating still in waters so near ice they burn, silent and empty – like boats left floating on the ponds of Roanoke. Physicality is life and you cannot spell life without lie although what is the cost or worth of it? The intake is acid maybe oxygen feels this way to flatworms and the gurgle surging up this throat clutches to it. Thrust back your head. In willing maybe sinking is probability.
Maybe Ophelia had it right…
Slow in gravitational trail, crossing endless fields of cream that garnet honey flows as rivers do. Saccharine leisure you can count the tally in groups of five is seductive. The world may not be a vampire but it certainly hungers for something. What is left to give after heart hopes wishes dreams soul?
Filled with an emptiness full to bursting and yet without feeling. The Nothingness was not some idea in book forgotten long ago. If you put your ear to the wall you can hear it coming for you. They lied when they said it was termites. And no one anticipates it; regardless it comes still – like natural disasters of the soul.
Pour out that tide of verve, rich in vibrancy with notes sweet as honeyed nectar flowers spill to bees.
It will break like waves cresting walls they shouldn’t be able to climb and will sweep swift over all, consuming pooling engulfing drowning. Escape futile from a stampede as overwhelming as the coming depths of oceans god hasn’t known. Cascade like waterfalls in damned villages from christian fairytales. In reality christians are vampires, drinking the blood of life. The puddle matures into pond as the form collapses, colliding with marble in vein attempt at stillness. That white escarpment bleached as bone blinds and that sanguine pond spreads as oceans do when ice ages end.
…The slowing clock stops
An enchanting evening full of faerytales and bittersweet memories. The tragedies always fulfilled in me something special, some secret lullaby of melancholy the stars hum after midnight. I walk along roads made of moondust searching for sweetly shimmering stars hiding amongst the foliage. I crafted a jar of the clearest crystal in the shape of a star, and sealed it with an ornate wire top so the stars would survive their journey to you. I search in the evenings, for the brightest ones to keep you in the light when all is closing in and falling down around you.
Tonight I am wearing my wolfskin as I sing symphonies to Beethoven. We stroll beneath the rich boughs of sacred trees and I dance around him to illustrate my point and orate my tales for which there are no words. And in the breaks between the trees we shout rumors at the Moon, who carries her gossip on sweet evening breezes.
The Cheshire follows close behind, eager to hear to riddles and pry for pieces of our minds. We are happy to fashion our replies with strange concepts for everyday items and words that have no significance when spoken together. All of us laugh, made merry with our simple jokes which have no meaning or underlying motives.
Crossing the Scotch Bonnet sphere through the veil we join the fae in celebration for the rise of the third moon. On cliffs overlooking golden seas, we look to the east where the mountains rise in a halo from the marine. Secrets are whispers that comprise the breeze that pulls the new moon from her home in the deep. The exult begins as a thousand tiny diamonds shuttling through the air in wet festival and announcement of arrival. Here in the joyous respite, the wolf with the bittersweet memory is most sacred of all…
A misbegotten attempt at getting lost proved fatal, and so I sat a while starring in the pool with Narcissus. We drank some wine and laughed remembering well-worn follies. After a head first dive we floated on the darker streams of being and chatted up Ophelia, who somehow proved a king. And in the shadowy abyss we sat before her throne; of black pearls, agate, onyx and obsidian stone while she reigned high above with her glimmering crown of sapphire and hematite.
The sights we saw, the games we won, The Carnival of Dark Delights – was ours a time in merriment and well deserved escape. And in the deepest tresses of my soul did stir a lust for wandering. And so I bid ado, to friends and lovers alike, and with well wishes and promises of return left in the middle of the night.
A sojourn with nocturnal creatures, pale and full of fire, we laughed at the worlds creation of the vampire. We paid the ferryman to cross the river Styx, and I peered often over board to query the deceased on all the things that they had learned and their old memories. Upon reaching land we ventured off into the realms of hell, to visit Hades and sit and talk a spell. He told us marvelous stories of long lost enchanting things, and dazzled us with treasure unlike any we had seen.
We traveled through the orchards of luscious pomegranate, and picked and ate our fill until the stains were dark. We danced with both his wife and mistress who held sweet secrets of their own, and bequeathed fine trinkets for our journey home. The festival we had to admire was both dark and bright as black fire and burned us to exhaustion. So with our carts of gifts we slumbered as we rode into the realms of vivid familiarity, safe in the stewardship of Hermes and his staff.
Do christians honestly believe the devil lives in the form of a goat – cloven hoofed with slatted eyes? A concept they themselves created in their beginning by “laying all the sins” down upon the goat and sacrificing it to their then blood thirsty god. And if so why is it they cannot see what it really is – their own darkness refusing to die?
Why is it when everyone else is thrilled to see the monster die, a part of me dies as well. Do you not agree that it is the darkness as much as the light that determines who you are? And if you are content to deny a part of who you are – why then should you be trusted?
I’m damaged goods, aren't you?
We're damaged, damaged,
And I hope you like scars too.
Ain't no rules, ain't no vow, we’ll get broken anyhow:
V’n’V will see you through,
'Cos everyday we pay the price with a lot of sacrifice,
Broken down just for you.
We're damaged -
To think that heartache was a thing of the past;
And I hope these memories will last.
No reason can stop us now, we neither beg nor we won't bow;
Too damaged to be part of the mold.
We all defend the right; to be broken deep inside:
Your life is worth much more than gold.
We're damaged (damaged, damaged, damaged)
And we're damaged by some fucking whores;
We're damaged (damaged, damaged, damaged),
We're damaged somewhere deep inside.
Yeh! Damaged deep inside;
Damaged deep inside:
Broken down deep inside
With scars for each occasion.
Yeah, we're - we're damaged (wotcha-wa),
Wotcha-wa-wa-wa, we're damaged (wotcha-wa),
See, I was broken before you
We're damaged (damaged, damaged, damaged)
I'm damaged, I hope you're into damaged goods.
Scars about my pride and the things that I will try
To keep you satisfied.
True love that now exist is the love I can't resist,
Damaged deep inside.
We're Damaged (damaged, damaged, damaged), yeah-eah-eah!
I was broken before you
We're damaged, we're damaged, we're damaged, we're damaged,
We're damaged, we're damaged, we're damaged, we're damaged;
Hope you like damaged goods.
We're damaged, we're damaged (damaged),
We're damaged, we're damaged (damaged).
I’m broken (I was broken before you) – I’m broken
I was broken before you.
Damaged, damaged (hope you like damaged goods).
Eh-eh! I hope you like damaged, I hope you like damaged,
'Cause (I was broken before you). I was broken before you.
I’m broke - I hope you - I hope you like damaged goods.
I want a million little things. I want just one thing. I want to be caught in the implosion, that magical explosion where you burst out and suck into yourself in a contradiction – the universe’s idea of a joke. Can you be everything and nothing at the same time? Is it possible to be content and utterly restless? I want to run until I am at one with everything – until I am nothing.
I’d like to explain some things, but there wouldn’t be any point. There rarely is in these hours, these moments, these tiny eternities that stretch on forever connecting and overlapping with one another like ripples in a pond. And if you could see further ahead, that telescopic glance would lead you to the past.
I’m sure the smile on my face is somber and sad, belying the notion that there is something wrong. And if there is I couldn’t be the one to tell you, taking every thing as it occurs. All of its fate and divine intervention and independent will. All at once there are choirs of angels and god on a throne in heaven while satan slithers in the shadows to coax you with ease to hell – and there is only me, no gods, no devils, no hope or faith or belief.
I wish I could tell you that I am afraid, that all this seems to weigh in on my like some crushing rock. That I am lost and merely seeking some small comfort.
But that would be a lie.
The object that I seek is just out of reach. Alas, I have continued the journey long past the death of Hope – she waits still, martyred in that room full of blood and roses and the shredded wings of angels. And I am here, which is nowhere. Where everything is nothing and all of it is riddles – some misspent youth in a looking glass with snarky beguiling cats.
I’d like to tell you that everything will be adequate and that time and faith will mend all that ails you. But I have never been one to lie unless it served a purpose. There are times when the journey serves no intention but to wear you down and put you out – when the sole function of the endeavor is to see just how much we can load on that camel. And I wish you would never have to go through it, never have to face all the horrors and monstrous things that lurk in the world, all those misdeeds and skeletons locked away in proverbial closets that would make Dracula and Frankenstein’s Monster run screaming for the light of day – but I know of no other way to build the character.
Much like articles of clothing, you must be broken in and worn down as vintage carries a great many things, including wisdom. And all the nightmares that you face are merely a question of obstacles, of choices you need to make – Athena weaving the tapestry of your life wondering what adventure you will find yourself in the middle of.
The Fates have no interest in building your life for you and so the gods gave you free will. The same determination that makes one abused child a sociopath and the other a champion for civil liberties – that makes one rape victim a prostitute and the other a founder of organizations to help the victims and raise awareness. They care not if you flounder and fail or fight and win, they are simply here to throw you into the deepest pool they can find at a moment’s notice. And it will always only be you that has chosen the area.
I have always preferred to imagine the worst. I like to spend my free time thinking of tomorrow’s possibilities and twisting them to breaking. Visualizing the most horrible outcome for any number of activities that I may be required to perform or happen to chance upon. Vivid and garish: the sounds of breaking bones and steel and glass; the slick feel of blood, like wet velvet; the sensation of exsanguination, of death, of broken bones and dislodged joints, of ripped flesh open wide, the possibilities are as welcomed as the impossibilities.
I enjoy the fantasy of suicide, the sensations of dying by various methods. The predicament of my body upon discovery, the assortment of stages it will take throughout its decay. I have never thought very much of this habit, and in truth its an exercise I take part in many times a day, some more than others, but always during everyday I can remember I having thought of it at least once. I have never set to undertake an examination – a thoroughly noted analyzation of the possible notions, the underlying meaning, the subtext of the subconscious, the wherewithal to complete the flights of fancy.
I like to imagine the horrors. I like to dissect each one, replay the action slowly and examine the inner workings. There is something to this – to knowing the terror intimately. Terror is stronger than horror, so the nightmares lent to it are greater, and if you can be well aware of this – of the things that given to creating night terrors in brave adults, then there has to be something said of preparation. Knowledge is power, and all power corrupts – and in all of us there is a capacity for power then we are all, on some level, monsters.
The demons and devils of lore are nothing more than the fears we harbor about ourselves. Satan is nothing more than the skeleton of the scapegoat we slaughtered haunting our closets. Maybe we’re all just afraid of being monsters, afraid of admitting the terrible things we are capable of. Though I’m pretty sure if we just manned-up and dropped our balls it would be more invigorating than we think.
To be at ease with the atrocities we are proficient in creating on a whim – secure in the knowledge that we are better for rising above and succumbing to these caprices based on any given moment and separate situation. To have the judgment we are all guilty of casting based not only on our mayhem but also on our benevolent endeavors. Maybe that’s really how it goes. Maybe the ticket to getting into heaven isn’t all those benign acts, but also the deviances we take part in with wholehearted gaiety.
Buddhists say that every mistake is a new beginning – and if so then I would have to say that I have been granted more than most. And if that is so – then how would one allot the karmic retribution? Am I living through my hells even as I create them? And then there is the matter of reincarnation – can one live more than one life while ones body has yet to cease? Are we too narrow minded when we think that this matter of re-birth is something that takes years to capitalize on – or are we capable of expanding the way the universe does, not in mere miles but in growth of planets and galaxies and the life therein.
I am an artist and thereby a martyr, doomed to suffer at the hands of my crowd whether they choose to set me free or see me flayed alive. So are artists always martyrs and that said are martyrs always artists? Now don’t get me wrong, I suffer no grandiose illusions and hold no court with Jesus or Joan; but there are martyrs and Martyrs, heroes and Heroes, a subtle hint that separates the everyday from that of epic stature.
Do we need to be broken down and torn apart to get that new beginning? And if so how far does it have to go, how far gone do we have to be before we see what we were missing all along? Are all breakdowns merely the winters in our lives – the period where we are so barren and stripped of it all that the numbness is a welcome sensation while our souls slumber waiting for the fresh breath of spring. Or are the breakdowns themselves the winter, and the aftermath where we sit staring at all the things we’ve taken for granted in an entirely new light that new life of spring?
Maybe the fountain of youth isn’t some gurgling spring, but the sensation perpetrated by starting over. Maybe eternity is granted in the mistakes we make.