Sunday, July 8, 2018

The 2nd Day: Part 1

The first day never woke up, the morning decided to sleep in.  The sunrise appeared before me as a timeless turn style, baring no disguise nor shadow on a sundial. 
When Razmataz and I first noticed the day we padded ourselves within the rusty backyard playpen, the creep shack.  A one hundred year old monument to an undetermined dogma that barely held itself upright in our backyard.  We were staples in a drag club can can line up of a block. Our rainbow shacks gave the backside of the poverty line the eloquence and detail it deserved in teal and pink. A strange magical tattoo that kept the rafters of our creep shack intact and caught in time, like a spider web of scars cradling a century of hurricanes, parties, torture, and arson. The caterpillar coated palms on either side of its broken doors shaded the mosquitoes and wolf spiders, giving refuge to the lonely and the poisonous. It was in the creep shack we were cold brewed in a vat of our own room temperature stench dunked in a broken jackoozie.  To my right was a rusted rocking horse and to my left a bar that held more roaches than it did liquor. Still stewing at a heat index of 113 we myered ourselves in a roux of high fashion petrochemicals, substituting our reputation for dreams.  Shrinking ourselves to bath toy size each afternoon we made an olympic venue out of our domestic garden tub.   We were pruning our memories when Chase found us, the dream catcher.  At 5'4" he towered over our finger length appendages.
He dreamt us up two chain ropes with kevlar ends to light on fire, he kept dreaming till we had new genders and new lovers with which to dance out the dawn.  It was the queerest event in town and a catalogue of Archee Mcfee style rubber duckies. Eventually his dreams began to rub on off us like sun screen, we dreamed an audience as we performed various feats of coordinated aquatic fire dancing in our white trash bird bath.  Razmataz loved the flame, he bent gasoline on water like a dance party with the heat.  It was our inconspicuous privilege to have tea parties with death in this way.  Meanwhile our conspicuous luxury began to buckle under the warping ceiling.
Morning's silence stole our whispers.  I remember the moment well, comfortably seated in excess against the haze of afternoon sun like a hand over my throat.  We felt preparedly detatched when we tuned in the old radio my Nana gave me.  A vintage wooden box atop four spindly legs with a record cabinet and six dials.  The character alone gave it an anthropomorphic quality I'd previously only considered possible in psychedelic musical numbers performed by kitchen wears in Beauty and the Beast.
The radio waves could penetrate the bermuda triangle that had formed angles along the bathtub tracing it to the floor blades lined with fire ants and up the corners of the creep shack.  The sky had been blushing pink with embarrasment.  How did it stay dark for so long? Why couldn't it remember it's own constellations?
The radio spoke to us from it's plywood underbelly with fuzzy inhalations,
"The US has left the UN peace treaty"
"8 children died at the border today during the opening party for the new embassy"
"Korea has reunited"
"This is war"
"Then they broke down our door and the SWAT team took our father."
We saw two frogs fucking something like humans in the corner of the shack, as we lifted our heads to gaze upon our yard.   It was a peaceful, quiet, burning hellfire.
Fire began dripping from the sun, we held out our hands recklessly.  Grasping for the pellets of gold as they melted our hands to the peeling jackoozie paint, its watery insides evaporating into the dew as we filled the morning with its own heat.  The kind of heat that plugs your ears and lungs; a heat born without shade.
Our neighborhood's neon houses cleared a pathway through the underground swamp fire, and the rusted pony began to have a seizure.  We watched as the flames swallowed possibility, tied to the tub by our shrinking ability to recognize escape. I told Raz, "Well, an infernal oasis is still an oasis."
We were kept alive by the technicolor coat of gasoline wrapping the shack in an electric blanket.  The dawn moved through us in waves of a transient adrenaline rush as it broke over the clouds. Those seeds of flame became us, they outlined each pistol whip and embrace that surrounded us as the residents seized each other in the darkness that began to collect in the heat of mid day.  It was all a routine we forgot each day in our annual vortex to madness. The palms shed roaches, metal peeled off it's own skin, and the trees kept trying to pull their feet loose as if the side walks were mildewed socks soiling overgrown kleats.
 It was raining fire, but the news kept going,
"It appears the world is consumed in what we can only describe as a volcanic act of endearment. Is this judgement day or have we all been saved by some unprecedented madness? No deaths have been reported, it is uncertain if they have occurred.  No trees have fallen, but it is uncertain if there are forests. We do not appear to be breathing oxygen. Tonight our feature act includes an American adaptation of Japanese Buddhist monks who will throat sing waterfalls. Your ears will be drowned in cooling thoughts. Don't miss at 9 sharp central time a full cast of recklessly drunk black men, they will be performing for a white female audience who will not admit that the stage exists, that this is a radio broadcast, or even that the world is on fire!  .......Edit: One death reported of a postal worker alone in her van, 45, no pre-existing health conditions..........  Up next on 'You're Fired: Nooses and News for the Now,' scientists interview and consult with police on how to control this information as the world rapidly searches for plausible causes of this week's latest natural disasters and inexplicable witchcraft.  This is Brownie Didactica coming to you live, raw, naked, NOW! Stay tuned, automated telecommunications will replace me with elevator music shortly."
The news scrambled our brains like cough syrup on an adolescent summer sun, and the neighborhood had the world regenerating inside itself with the electricity of a new mystery. We laughed, and then sighed for only the dead know life so playfully.
I could shed my opinions like a bad hair cut on the lonely bar counter, a thin comforter of blind conviction. I could bend gasoline with the rain, shrink myself until all simple feats became an inane circus trick, but I didn't know how to read the news. Razmatazz and I could only listen to it passively with wide eyes, passing coffee around our stank vat against a back drop of unsettling elevator music and abrasive talk show hosts.  I used to believe my wonder bread was baked with cheap trickery, that I've only ever been a flammable sparkle pony riding on party favors.  On that first day my hot pink wears were distilled in some wrongful artificial flavor that clashed with the color in my face. That flavor was my masochistic dogma, my religious conviction that I was not unlike the broadcasts that wrapped me in wet blankets as night approached, riding my back like the dialogue given to housewives in old cinema.  The waves of my self inflicted pin pricks were like a lugubrious jester inflicting stab wounds to distract me from the burning world I bathed in.   Politicians and celebrities were chanting on the radio so we couldn't see them looking in their mirrors at the thousands of side shows they believed would fixate attention;  the main event no one bought a ticket for.
As the day carried onward and we turned the remaining life in our sweat to a drug for delirium the media's power collapsed and broke like a tired economy under the weight of it's own fear mongering.  It was not from lack of resources as much as a porous respect and depression that left the electronic graveyards with out ears to hear a television die.  I stopped fearing my volume.
Then the stage pulled me back in to the creep shack, it picked me up and twisted my volume until my dynamics flooded the sorry synthesizer wallpaper of NPR, and I kept dancing.  I wanted to dance for Razmataz but I could barely see him, my performance and my ritual had become indistinguishable. I'd left my advertisements for self mutilation and wax coats in a dumpster around the corner to melt and mold in the suns piss.  The police here wouldn't even notice.  Raz and I hadn't been designed for a pub crawl resume or a scripted coffee chat in a rom com.  There's no reception ceremony or girl scout badge for the woke waiting on the networks implanted in our thoughts.  Santa stopped and pondered, he didn't care who was naughty or nice, he wanted the naughtier and the nicer.  We alone could appraise and inhale the dances of our expression and our disguise, our anger and complacency, as our feeling of everyone resonated our bones like a dead drummer. I danced the sunrises that grew up around Raz like a cure for kudzoo, because I couldn't dance around myself.  My body was rising with the saprophytes of fallen forests.  It was a dance with the only dawn that ever followed me, that never gave up on me.  I wanted to give Raz my eyes but I didn't know how, I wanted to dance through beyond my flame but I was burning to death in a jackoozie.
Razmatazz smiled languidly at the performance as if it were easier than letting his face fall around him.  As he lazily coordinated plastic acrobatics in our white trash baby pool the fear snuck in the backdoor of his smile.  The terror that I'll keep it saying it,
"Now, wait no NOW... how about now, so now really I'm so super serious, now I'm changing.  I'm a whole new woman."
He finally asked me,
"Do you need to be another woman?"
I found my soap box of expired neurotrogena products and stood on it in heels broken at the sole, finally peeling my skin off the melting paint of the bath tub.
"I want to hear the tree that falls in the woods, I want the news to dance with me.  I've been graciously featured in world events, even if only in its back alley pop up.  Now it's my turn, I'm calling the show up to my own stage with you.  Don't laugh! I'm experiencing my power with the radio rhythms."
Raz chuckled dismissively and asked if I wanted to do energy work with Jane Fonda work out videos while I was at it.  Failing to accept failure, opportunity, or even a joke I enthusiastically spent the evening publicizing my victim hood.  Events recorded, produced, and published on a device smaller then my hand had settings so I could emphasize the neon flame rain that drenched me.  What's more the device allowed me to record my skin as black or white on a chosen preset. I'd record anything, anyone, anytime, anywhere; as long as I was in the frame.  Eventually no one wanted to be in the picture since I couldn't fit them in next to my face. It got more complicated, my volume had grown so loud you couldn't discern my words over the distortion.  My radio even got so bad that I heard static between my rhetoric. I never wanted to be a TV, I'm much more modest than that.  I just wanted to become the half baked polaroids stoners had left in the sun of Audobon park, just slightly covered in duckshit, sun kissed and buried beneath the shavings of high priced landscaping. That's what I wanted, but I knew it wouldn't be enough for the audience in my head.  I owed them a show, I'd created them after all with the soul purpose of judging me when I failed to do it myself.  What kind of sick cruel scientist would I be if I deprived them of the judgment I'd bred them for.
I needed a grand finale. I put on a jumpsuit, I took the flaming medieval mace Jackie Chan left in my old apartment, and I violently pinned open the doors of every house in the neighborhood demanding they realize their radiant energy and inner peace. An old conman in a haz mat suit saw me from the street as I twirled a fire ball adorned in fangs and nails.  He followed me, clocked me once over the head with my own madness, and buried me alive in the last of the ice chest Raz and I had set out next to the bath tub which had now all but melted entirely.
The haz mat con man wasn't truly a liar. In his isolated ignorance he thought himself a heroin as he went about town putting out fires with gasoline, occasionally encouraging them like toddlers learning to walk using little grinning watering cans.  They were yellow and plastic with daisies on them. Training wheels for an armageddon outfitted in a radioactive summer.  He thought following me was an act of romance, but all anyone could hear of his epic tale was a sad and creepy yearning.
 "Today! Live!  Crying unheard stories, intrinsic victories, turning the tables of time and space till they're a symphony recorded on my station."  I put down my megaphone, pulled the plug out of the bath tub and watched as stagnant water abandoned itself spilling out on to the concrete.  It went on to the street, down the block, washing the flames and madness up around my ankles.  It was a flood that would have extinguished Icarus.  Chase had left me a dream before I'd realized he was a dream, I ran into the flood looking for Raz but I couldn't find him with my eyes closed. It seemed the porthole I'd danced into existence had closed it's hands around darkness.  It wouldn't even tell me which side I was on, which battle was mine, or which moment or revelation hadn't been in cahoots with another.  Rinsing, washing, repeating linearity until it was only a scribble and there was no road left before me.  No neon night, just a flickering sign, 'The Dungeon.'

Thursday, May 10, 2018

I just need five more minutes to look at you

"Je t'aime"
I can't find those five minutes.
I know I just had them, they were all over my walls somewhere.
I can hear their details unfold years of fabric.
We use it for costuming on the holidays,
like the birthday I kissed your comic book mask.
I get these sensational indentations
opening the doorway to a set and setting
the sunset sister of aurora bourealis
where I drink pastels and needle my compass
as it points and laughs at my exposed atrium.
Low and behold I walk on broken glass
as it hollows a sculpture of my tendons
and mitriculates in my marrow.
I mourn this nightmare through sunglasses after our sun sets
so no one can see I'm blinded
by and by golden suspensions of evening
that relieve the horizon of winning and losing
as it opens wide and swallows the fear
shading my unhinged devotion.
Exile boils us down to distilled sand as we leak up an hour glass,
the metronome encasing this circus
that follows our outsides inside
along the small of her waste
to the foyer furnished in edwardian ground scores
where we sit neatly balanced between clowns and beasts,
giving us just the perfect view of the daisy field tattooed on your arms
gift wrapping my peaces in the isolation I fell upon,
a porthole to those five minutes
when I said "Je t'aime"
I say it again, but this time I laugh and pretend my words are but spiders in a vaccum,
wayward amputees, dandy lion seeds.
I found those five minutes where I used to keep my insides
in a heap on center stage.
Now we may continue with our main event, the side show.
I am that Persephone that kidnapped Hades from his own hell,
he's draped on his checkered kitchen table that stands planted in the daisies,
a podium from which we breath heavy invitations to dream
five minutes in our infinite hour,
before it buckles below a tired sky stretched across one sound,
Je T'aime.  

Friday, July 29, 2016

In memory of shana

I asked myself earlier whether or not Shana would be proud of me.  She was always so honest and had such confidence in her standards for behavior and her intolerance for betrayal that I often found my own pride in myself through her eyes.  Although the most beautiful thing about this aspect of Shana is that she liked me more and favored me more the more I took pride in myself, and for that reason. She did not believe in wallowing in sadness or self pity.  While she had a hard time acknowledging her own pain, as we grew up we helped eachother find the place sadness has in self respect over self pity.  In the place where you understand how you can grow from the experience, or possibly avoid it in the future, find the strength in yourself to learn from everything about the woes and beauty of humanity. My own self doubt often plagued or friendship, it would repel her or prevent me from being open to her defiant nature.  When I look back on my question, would she be proud of me, it helps me to remember that she will be proud of me when I have pride in myself.  When I understand why I’m doing the things that I’m doing and I’m proud to be doing them.
It’s unfortunate that I forgot what it felt like to have a friend who so positively reinforced me, made me feel good about being genuine, about being strong.  Most people just compliment me for being care free or cool. Only someone who doesn’t truly understand why I try to love what I see would believe those detatched higherarchical compliments. When shana helped me believe I was genuine, I became more genuine, and that was the source of the strength I had around her.  While she could be intimidating her strength was insidious.  She was a teacher of individuality, how to find your own music, your own movies, your own hair style, your own clothing.  She didn’t want the in she wanted the out, the way to ignore what was in.  While we were all products of an advertising industry to some degree, most of our fascinations were as genuine as our aspirations, our drug usage, and our friendships.  That is why our friendships outlasted our drugs and failed dreams, and that is the only reason any of the advertisements ever even worked.
Her death is a reminder to embrace reality the way I did before I felt damaged and weak and jaded. I was truly a hero with her and Emily in high school. I felt like a learner of life and not a victim of my own propensity to fall on hardships. 
Everyone has a propensity to fall on hardships, what matters is that I learn to live as if I could die tomorrow, and to love as if we will never die, to see as if for the first and last time, to feel as if I could be another, to never imagine the audience the obituary or the statistic, but the human behind every song lyric, every science fiction novel, every magic card, everything.  
p.s. shana took the picture that is the head of my blog and is one of the only people that ever followed what I wrote

Saturday, June 4, 2016

writings from grad school in neuroscience

Criticality. Shortness. Science.
Criticality is instigated by a second messenger cascade that modulates autocrine signaling. As one binds to another, they can be absorbed by the other and poison them from the inside out. Alternatively they may maintain detached on the surface and indirectly imbue the other with self-doubt which reacts with defense mechanisms to form a compensating shell that slowly desensitizes and degrades the receptivity of the cold motionless surface. The main effects are accounted for by the mirrored coding of their actions. Homeokinesis, managing the untidy foldings and structure with the energy of another.  Eventually they will be broken down and reduced to tarnished metaphors of themselves, microscopic, inanimate, diagrams of their souls.
To be cold is to forget heat, to be hot is to forget cold. 
For approximately fifteen minutes everyday for five days then for 30-45 minutes on subsequent days in a rhythmic lunar cycle until the peak days there is a shield that will lower itself over the eyes. Something about my honesty makes me taste like lipstick and the iron in my blood.
 I am constantly in a state of presentation because I am striving for a presentation. 
Should I be so surprised when I support barely heartedly day after day neuroscience which I love for only two reasons:
I know how it can be improved upon, and it makes me feel like I haven’t been that brain damage in high school because I’m capable of understanding my brain damage in high school.
I do not want to compensate for my dazed flachelent attention span;  self medicated with hallucinogens, masters degrees, and phone numbers.
That leaves me alone, uneducated, and sober.
Motives are what we make them.  This is why LSD is an extremely important drug.
Subjectivity is part of an external reality.  Sweat lodges are a crucial component of realistic and empathetic self reflection.
Self help books are the devil. Because they externalize the struggle.
I am not a self help book. I am not a self help book.  Just chant that three times, and you can truly be yourself. 
I am constantly in a state of presentation because I am striving for a presentation.
The writers mind drifts between the page and her readers, drifts to their awareness of his wonderings, and then finally admits them and falters beneath her own egocentric diologue, holding on to his sanity by the string of assurance that self awareness grants her.
I am striving for being in the being of being.
Seeing everymoment in every other moment. 
People hallucnagens and exploratory journeys through the history of abstraction and molecular wonder.
That’s just not what happens though.  I sit down and look at flash cards and the information slowly siddles into my mind.  I weep. I weep. I weep.
I was happy that time I exercised.
Now my sentencenes just keep getting shorter.
The I me my more numerous.
The melancholy satire more convoluted and reflective of a generation that could find the middle of nowhere on their GPS.
Hypocracy is inevitable.

Monday, January 11, 2016

In Memorial of David Bowie

In Memorial of David Bowie
David Bowie has passed, but he was larger than life.  He created myths and fantasies that he could live out his creations through, that he could reach people through.  The name David Bowie has become a being that can’t die because he is embedded in us, not just in the vinyl we own or the posters on our wall, but in the more colorful and eccentric world we live in because he existed. He does not need tall buildings or statues or large falices to be memorialized.  I remember his successes and his mistakes as proof that we are all aliens in our own way and that only makes us more human.  Our alien nature only makes it more possible for us to be who we want to be.  It will never stop us from being more fabulous than we’d ever imagined.  Without ever saying a word to me, David Bowie makes me feel like I’m beautiful, like I can dress the way I want to, have the friends and lovers I want to, and to be proud of everything that makes me different.  He taught me to embrace change, and that entering new worlds or ideas or spaces can be sincere, and there’s no need to be afraid or to feel like a poser.  It just means I get to experiment with my hair do.  He taught me that you can be a bad ass, you can push the limits while being sentimental in a room full of muppets.  So much of who I am today, and of who so many people are, is shaped by David Bowie and the excellent musicians and artists he brought together. The world will never forget its new found comfort, self esteem, and spectacular environment he helped give it permission to create with his confidence and talent.  His devotion to art was never simply about getting paid or being loved, it was about bringing everyone together and telling them to “give me your hands, because you’re wonderful.” 
If anyone would like to help me figure out how to get to the memorial concert at Carnegie hall, or arrange our own memorial concert and/or a memorial film marathon in New Orleans please let me know.  I know a lot of people who feel the word 'fan' is understatement when it comes to Bowie and I know this isn’t easy for any of us.