Alex and the Golden Strands of Honeycakes
A man once said that anytime there is a need for consolidation, you will forget your name. This is the most valuable advice that I wish I could use. Fortunately, itís worth is sealed forever, no one there to doubt, no one to play tricks and experiments utilising moral beings as observation and ego as results. This was one thing I could truly gaze on in a near scared light, and most likely will be the last thing to accompany me to my grave.
I live on Sacremento Avenue, not two blocks from the town plaza. Iíve been there for almost two years now, it almost feels like home. Thirty light years away would be a more accurate representation of where my home is, but I donít live there anymore. I live on Sacremnto Avenue. Iíll die there too, you know.
A man once said some bullshit. It was the best advice I never used. Itís proven trustworthniess is safe in the inevitability of my death, and my death is safe in the solitude of my abode. I donít really live anywhere I cannot say I exhibit signs of cognition. Far away may be my best estimate of where my dreams lie but I canít really say for sure because Iím going to die some day you know. All these stories and more are barely even contrivances in the patterns of my thoughts and I canít even say that there is anything here which is going to be passed on. I canít guarantee that you will read these words and there is no proof that anything really wrote them. All I know is that there is something unsaid which drives infinitly multiplied words, and not even unique ones. Repeated words, false words, incoherent words and unnecessary ones. I say this only to prove this. My motive is only to wonder why.
On the corner of my street and the main road there is a small stall run by a man whoís hobby is to collect stones. Out here in the city he watches all day as the cars meaninglessly glide by and the winds shift there helpless hands. He is one who comes closer to seeing, I canít say that many others do or that anyone is really sure. The street he walks on is a streak of grey, encrusted specimen of one of the highest orders. Itís design was one forged in the heat of one manís argument with another man. In place of a court hearing the era of the day prescribed a long running pact between mineral and animal, one which made no claim over eternal division and was cast in the same swiftness as that imagined to take its place one day. Matters of heart were put aside to concentrate on unconscious duties like breathing and thinking, and to this day no one has managed to spare as much time for the debate. What I and the vendor on the corner of my street share as a symbol of the times is an inability to reforge our reflection laid out on the grain of this city. We walk on it and spit on it but seldom talk to it burn it or pet it. Likewise we do not tear the fabric of our skin or shove our vibrating lips into the mouths or other orofuses capable of detection of other people. We seldom indulge in viewings of photographs encapsulating internal organs or other imitations of red soft pushy inflection.††††††††††††††††
Now you have it, now you have the truth. We do not seek global domination, nor to we seek peace throughout the galaxy. Nor is there a we, there is you, I, a few cats and dogs. We lost an entire country after their entire population committed suicide in protest at the galaxyís universal stupidity. Most of the other countries were spared only for the few who managed to turn on their tv sets that day. The tranquility from this representation of their heartís emptiness was enough to spare them that destination and begin a new journey, one which which was conceived and discussed this time with the peopleís new found social identity. And somehow, as if a life of vacuuming the interestellar dust of the cosmos wasnít enough I managed to stumble into this earnest way of life. All I could say was something I cannot recall, but as I sit down now and kick the pavement with my shoe there is much to forget, oh so very much. My name is Alexander and everything I say to you becomes the end of my journey.
I have a counterpart her name is Alexandria and I cannot fail to admit, I like her name very much. Itís shortform pleases me and I am not proud to say I havenít written about gendered desire at any length before. It sure feels like a new subject but that is what words do to you. The more I admit that I do not know of any embodiment of my desire the more I must describe her and all the years that have been created for her. Alex, like this city, was not a natural devolpment as with most female gendered objects. There is little implant in their material that will grow and spourt in any way you expect it would subject to order and choas by natural design. In this sense, I can comfortable agree, there is no gender to my beloved subject, only rhythm. Of my entire species all that sets us apart is a heartbeat.† To read, to read this channel is a power untold cast away for way feels like eons in a century of stars. In any amount of time there is always enough to get the meaning through, it is your description of time which deals the subject.† And so, like Alex, stories of endlessness and all-time creation will be set aside, for now. Like spelling errors you must forgive these fragments which shatter the identity of what I am trying to pass on.† No word can be assumed to be a word - unless you know what Iím talking about.
And because I know for a fact you do not know who Alex is, then I know to you she is all that I have left. My truth to her truth, or rather, what is left of her truth behind my retina. I never met a girl like Alex, this is true, because I purposely withheld information from myself before meeting a girl like her. So, I guess, you can imagine my relief, my will, to lay eyes on her for the first time, to transport her image and her essence into that other motherland, to pluck her from one street on to another street. The street where I came from, the home which defeats all destinations. That is not to say I enjoy shunning my destination which was her departure, but... well selfish needs are only reflected in lost dreams, as they do say. Alex was a girl of stunning proportions, her hair shone like beauty and her lips tasted of sweet sweet vigilance. Every moment with her was awareness of lifeís past and a fortune of glory, told out in wonderful tongue and synchronised with a passion that envelopes you with knowledge outside your own. It is one of those moments when you know how meek your self-belief really is in the face of the order of signficance of the space-time infinite regression. In other words, you know how your past had always clung to your future. And so, like now, my life begins to perceive backwards, what it appears to lack in production serves only in substance. Her willingness to chart the areas I knew so well, my city, my heart, was a plea for compassion that will lay unrivalled so long as I can say it is so.
These are not just dreams because they perceive only what you know, but indeed latent poetry that I dare say binds all that ever spoke the words and promptly forgot them. A testament, if you will, to all that can be lost, cherished for that sake alone. I remember one night when Alex and I stood seemingly alone, hands clutched around each otherís waist, but we were not alone, for a barman was leaning over a table slowly rubbing circles into its film of grease. Who is to say what he knows but I would be honest and recognise how he got inside my head. By what I wanted. And that is the nature of everything that I loved about Alex. If the world did not travel through her and into my perception then it was the world that blew away and left nothing but nothingness whenever she entered my mind and I could escape my prejudices, and for once, recount a memory which I had no hope of denying.
So. From afar, you ask, what is the meaning of such exposed premonitions in the pretext of despair? Are you asking whether I know what it means to disrupt elegance? Well I donít know what you are asking, but I assume I can think of words which should not answer it. Everything is subject to delineation and if you have read ahead then you can achieve what I cannot and what life itself cannot. But also within that context once you have severed the boundaries of course my inner will becomes free, as free as a bird, and as nomadic as the position of any word on any page.
You must help me. I am dying to know what you are thinking. That is not my salvation in life, but a goal I know will help spread my worries out amongst the stars. A release from this fixed position so static that I cannot even chart my way home. No presentation of light can give me a whisper which will make my heart content. Every glisten in the night serves to isolate the fragments and sink them into the mud of sorrow that renders all of my weakness into lost lonely vows. There is little point pressing home the suggestion of a simpler life, the one which I cry over and hoped for so many years ago that an emblem of loss is all that I cry for. Knowledge has had a deep price to pay and its loneliness is complete. This, right now, and I mean in isolation from each other sentence after and before, I know now that emptiness can be lost like everything else. I donít fail to acknowledge that I am a rich man.
††††††††††† Everything Iíve ever known has already been done. My dreams, my family, my only point to existence. All gone. It was my own fault, and I even realised it at the time. Somehow, there was more driving me than I cared to realise. Yes, I guess that I doidnít see this force. I think I did, once, though. It was cooincidental, it was the difference between my life and death, all the same it was not a calm experience. Not simple.
A few years later I settled into this city. Sacremento Avenue was my first fixed residence. I donít really think about moving. At this stage everyting looks the same to me now. I guess, Iíd have to add to that assessment things look content, otherwise, I ask myself, wouldnít I have joined the lemming run to resentment? Ok, well it looks that way anyway. And not only for that reason alone. Not for any reason alone. I need help. Something is coming for me. I think it is the departmental thugs.
Every thought betrays me. I used to rely on thought so much it brought me to freedom. Now it is threatening to rip apart every fragment that gives me a fix on home, slice each memory into two and call each one a name. Which one am I I call back, but no one answers. They are silent for they know the paranoia that I have fallen pray to, some indignant adolescent in some past lifetime who will come back to haunt me and dominate my self awereness. I cannot allow this to come to bear. My mission is simple, clear, and yet in the darkness I am helpless. My weapons are used against me and I never saved anything for the return home.
Yet home is where I long to be. I have thrown it, somewhere, parts of it among the the light which scatters against the city trail. In smooth gradations it slides towards the sea bound by the same oath I took years ago when I swore that this was a mountain of natural lust not desire.† My city and her playground were not the same as my link to Alexandria. Alexís was of a different nature, to claim that it was meant to be is something I have no intention of explaining to you. But I do claim my placement in the metal void was always set in concrete. The skeletal map of my innermost security, the one thing keeping me tall, the one thing allowing me to look in. The more I could surround myself with the better, there was little choice when looking for a city to plant my seed under. I needed metropolis. It was the one that fused my self expression,† brought out the peace that was never inside of me. Here I can fulfill my lost feminine desire and accept the thrusting monuments like emeralds set in steel. Both of us knows whatís really inside. Literal meaning are for literary characters. Space and the unknown are for me.
I was looking for a pigeon I had tagged with some string when Alex saw me and pranced around. Alex came from a town that looked like a big farm. The people there werenít of the farming regularity, however, they were fairly exciting people and I visited them once. But Alex knew and was constantly telling me she was not born there, and in fact I could secretely tell, that like myself, her parts were brought in from numerous places, and possibly from outside space. Out of respect of course I did not make aloud my insinuations, and left her heritage to where she wanted it to be. She never told me. That, I guess, I thought strange, in face of the way couples shared so many things.
I asked for your thoughts, and I drove the clarity from this earth. Why? What sense of purpose does the spririt contain if only to ignore all that can be said and everything that achieves its aspirations? Did you know I piss like a fountain? Absolutely, the streaming vehicle of strengths that I rely on do no adhere on to the walls of my inner being. Not beyond speculation but certainly a method I find disconcerting. After all, was this symbolically a rejection of life and all it contained? Was I to presume that my ego deemed many articles unnecessary, if not for my own knowledge then for my limits of assimiliation? Was I, like a mortal, too stubborn to keep on living? I did not enjoy the energy inflow and outflow. A bare whipser of the acknowledgement of need. It was not always this way, and neither can I set a change of relative cellular need in its place. I believe, sheer psychological conditioning. By my own guilt, what is more.
††††††††††† Paranoia is the propagating vehicle of the literary waveform. A careless attitude to what can never be measured. Any conceptualisation ends in an action of inaction, and from that hell is pronounced. It never ends, the madness from nothing, it doesnít breed but it expands the world around it. It is an incredible feeling, so long as you are not tinkering with it in the present. The present is where you die. The present pretends to be as rigid as the conservative force throughout this political landscape. No one believes it, they do much worse, they fuck their brains out. An orthogonal path from the goal is never a good sign. Of course, people maintain, thatís how time works, and everything associated with it. Yes, they believe in counters, acknowledgement of how many times the loop is traversed. Our only hope, they say. Not much of one. I can think of better things.
††††††††††† On Sunday we went out where the sun was shining. We pondered the notions and walked the greenways, before finally coming to rest. Alex sat before the libarary steps, focusing intently on a visionís worth of butterfly elusiveness. I sat and let the skin droop towards itís natural tendancy. One. Two. To recognise the contradictions in their place, an unknown boredom that made its face soon familiar. It was like nothing had ever happened. Reborn and reset the madness descends on to manís lonely limbs and telekinetically he raises them together in a sullen clasp of disbelief. They are tugged and pulled away, then against the chest, and finally in a pose of forgetfulness marked and rest across the eyes. Vision, which was blocked by my eyelids anyway, is not so much changed but nervous. It was never the hallucinations that mattered, it was the act, the responsibility, of doing so. The landscape was an eyeful, but the attempt to comprehend its size was a journey.
Sometimes I wonder about all those people who killed themselves and disbelieve that I could not join them. So I have, of course, but with infintely greater troubles to bear. My heart beings to act frail, meek and pitiful until I say aloud that I do not require any more imagery. Silence expands time. I still feel that every sentence should be enough to convey the meaning of the essence of man. I realise that I have done much worse than survive, I have survived to murder the rest of humanity. I beg for so much, but nothing more than the risk to dance onwards at the cost of our own certitude. What is the lesson at stake here? Excitement? What a word, perhaps one of my favourites. I forget all of the critics, for not only do I consider myself one of them too, but I consider that I created all of them and robbed excitement of its previous owner. I crown myself king and sit on my chair and smile, ugly fat satisfying smiles that push in my cheeks like they could almost touch each other and I think the thoughts that make me everything and boy can I stop time with that power.
How easy it is to ask for salvation from the gods? It seems almost the most natural thing to do after you are born. A direct correlation may lead to the devil within, but does that not take the fun ot of the request? For me, it is a request made in the purest vain, a momentous time of joy and laughter at everything indifferent gone and in colour. Then of course there is the consideration of other peopleís fears. This city is a boon, for dayspotting the most atypical responses. Who can help you, I ask the minions. I have never felt so thin in my life, like I could wave through the fingers of all the business men huddled together and they would go home and eat their meals without a single desire.
Now I feel like I gave birth to this city just be having sex with my own mind. It is an incestuous creation, one that has defeated its journey for perception and started life from the inside out. It is, at the same time, strange, not totally unlike the fascination with horror. What is me and what is my creation? The difference?
The end. What is it. In. Alex, my love. Is it fair to say that I wrap my consciousness around your female form? Surely it is I and my species who have been given the gift of knowledge of feminine substance, and you of mine. Spare us from this solitary abode. Pain is the denial of the one relavant answer. So pain creates joy, and joy creates sorrow. And we think it happens again, but we make mistakes. Canít you see, we are robbed, no counter, it is robbed. You can see the alternate answer but try to decide which one really came first. I stop and reach my hands out for the birds. Letís start a round. You first.
luffy (at) diamondsky.org
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