19 December 2009
Suited for insanity

I weigh it all out. I send out post it notes to the universe, and get back slices of cheese. Cheese I’m not supposed to eat and yet do anyway, thank you new nutritionist.

If I look at it all through the lens of a meltdown what does that make my past? Not my meltdown, not theirs either, but melting nonetheless.

Remind me again why I rewatch old flicks, flip through the pages of of last years memories, last decades memories. Recently I was accused of only always looking forward, lists to keep me afloat. Three more books to write, “just write faster”. Lists of projects, of potential, of do do do lest I look backwards and realize I’m made a hash of it all so far.

Some days I dream of elegance. Of poetic tales where the hero floats away and is remembered for his last great work instead of his last great let down. Instead I make another list, pack another bag, create another unfinished product… because if there is work unfinished I have to stick around. Paint another canvas.

I said to someone recently that being in limbo is too hard for me, that I’m not wired for it. The truth is that I am painfully wired for it, wired so well that I fall away and the programming steps in. I flash through childhood stories of old men now, white underwear and shotguns on the front lawn. I flash through barbituates and oil canvases, broken looms and visiting days. I am too wired for the limbo known as the madness I find myself in. I breath in, too much work to do. Paint another canvas.

Dreams are painted on my flesh. Today in glitter and MAC, yesterday in flannel and denim. I coordinate possibilities in my laundry room, folding out potential.

This evening after coming back from thai food and a walk through possibilities (known also as the 5 for 20 sale at Blockbusters) to try to calm my truths and fictions, I came home and laid out supplies for ritual tomorrow. I stand before you Time, Fate, Chronos. I am the child of the twin brothers Kismet and Consequence. Two sets of wardrobe for the rite itself, unsure which I will want- long greys or stark whites. Chains will be heavy, but needed. Heavy collar packed, just in case, and the numbers for non-emergency police services. All hail the winter king. All raise their hands, rip out his heart, your time to die old man as we peek into the longest of nights.

Across the waves you kiss me then turn away.

Across the waves I kiss me then turn away.

Angst management, he calls it. I call it glitter and red eyeliner, fresh raspberries and black leather boots. I paint dreams and watch them dry, wondering if you can see my blue tree, see the flying bird. I flash and picture choices, memories of what may come, never come.

The joy of melodrama. I try to become solid again, become stable, become sane. I breathe in the work, ground into the banal. I count things. DVDs. Books. Ash burns (10). Tattoos (13). Scars. Laughter bottled. Times I’ve been let down. Times I talked and no one talked back. Gifts received for others. I become the vampire at the gate, mustard seeds cast out. I’ve been craving mustard since I got on T, craved spinach, craved lamb. Craved him. Craved me. Craved me.

Tomorrow I stand guardian at the gate. I stand the tower. I stand. And yet… between Kismet and Consequences, my own twin smiles back, and does not move. Madness stares back. I dream, I weigh, I get back cheese… wonder if I am suited for this insanity.