Writing practice 10/19/2018

Write about glasses…

They fit on your nose and improve your sight by magic. Because what else could it be? It can only be wizardry of the greatest sort, for how can something virtually invisible have such an effect? Think about it – one little piece of burnt up sand, melted together into a lump and then shaped into a flat disc, can now transform far-away objects to your immediate vicinity, or it can make the things which are close and appear fuzzy into sharp relief. Science? Nah – Just a big mind-fuck. Like, “Take that, intuition! I’m gonna show you what for with this little bit of cold, used-to-be-real-hot rock, because this thing that you can see through is actually going to do something for you, and it’s gonna blow. Your. Mind.”

And we call them glasses, they’re a pair. Two different ones, because we have learned that there are even individual differences between our two eyes. And that one person’s eyes are different from other people’s! Again, this speaks not so much to a history of science, measurement, testing and validation fo theory, and more to the idea that, somehow, maybe some mystical sprites are fucking around with our eyes inside our head, like they’re sticking their little fifth-dimension fingers inside our eyeballs every time we put on the glasses, and they’re adjusting all the dials and levers back there so that our brain gets all the right signals, like a big pipe works, you just got to direct the flow like that over there and like this over here, and all of a sudden voila! Perfecto!

But we can’t do that ourselves, our fingers are too three-dimensional and materialistic to make the [illegible], so we’ve employed, no, we’ve enslaved, we’ve conscripted this entire race of non-human, trans-dimensional beings to come do our work for us, and I wonder if they’re ever gong to get tired of that? Will they one day rise up in revolt, and say “No! No more shall we manipulate your eye sockets! No more shall we present to you a better, sharper picture of the world. no more shall we help you to avoid stumbling over Lego pieces when you’re just barely awake and you’d really rather have a cup of coffee and watch the replay of last night’s Charlie Rose but you are just doing your duty by getting these damn kids up and onto the bus, so you can finally have a morning’s peace around here. No, no more!”

Will they have their revolution then? Will they turn off all the spigots and spouts and rerouters back in our minds as one last FU! before they go? Will we all of a sudden wake up to find we humans have become collectively sightless once more? Now, that would be weird.

Writing Practice – 8/30/2018

Note – sometimes what comes out when I’m writing really surprises me. This was one of those times.

Myths of Origin, p 75

“Into my reverie bursts the Monkey, turning temple-creature with geometric arms full of sandwiches.”

His stadion radiates a semblance of perfectionary, the image wavers, as if through a desert haze, a mirage of reality, a thinning of the barrier between truth and imaginary. The Monkey, having by virtue of existence, earned his titular M, plays with his titular on the way out. He globules onto the permanence of spasmosticity, inventing new words and arrangements on old themes, transposing and transversing them as easily as a hot knife through ice cream, as deftly as a surgeon at the scalpel.

The MONKEY, monikered now with not only authority but also aggression, begins dismantling his sandwiches in front of me. He un-layers a top half-loaf of bread, then sets aside tomato, lettuce, sardines, a layer of mueslix, and the protein – goat’s tongue, ground up and stuffed inside the goat’s own intestine, flattened and seared so as to make a sandwich patty much like a sausage. I watch MONKEY with prurient interest, enamored with her thin, agile tail, golden and glowing in the moonslights, a reflection of a reflection of the original, and I marvel at the wonders of this universe which allows me to see twice-bounced photons as if the item itself luminesced.

I take off my robe to join MONKEY in its vulnerability. I wonder aloud whether it will join me once all the sandwiches have been autopsied, for that must be what zhir is doing, and therefore I must enjoy the moment, must appreciate the precision, the delicacy, the anticipation fo the coming feast.

So the sandwiches are bare, stripped, lying like skeletons in the moonslights, and I too am naked, flaccid penis hanging proudly down to my knees like so much goat-tongue sausage, before casing and cooking.

I watch MONKEY as it raises arms to the sky. It babbles in MONKEY-SPEAK, and yet my brain immediately translates.

“Bless the land. Bless the MONKEY. Bless the River. Bless the MONKEY. Bless the rain. Bless the MONKEY. Bless the wheat. Bless the MONKEY. Bless the crops. Bless the MONKEY. Bless the air. Bless the MONKEY. Bless the wind. Bless the MONKEY. Bless the Moons. Bless the MONKEY. Bless the Suns. Bless the MONKEY. Bless the humans. Bless the MONKEY. Bless the penis. Bless the MONKEY. Bless the seed. Bless the MONKEY.”

MONKEY drops its arms, takes me by the hand, leads me to the dismembered sandwiches. It stands me astride various piles, my left foot between lettuce and top bun, my right between sausage and bottom bun. MONKEY places a paw on my penis, begins to stroke. MONKEY and I begin the communion, the celebration, the fertilization, the joining of our fates together. My penis becomes erect. MONKEY strokes. It speaks again, but this time my brain allows the words to drift by, uncaptured, free, abandoned to the night.

The climax approaches. My breath comes short, my penis hardens, my pulse quickens. MONKEY strokes harder, intense, tighter. My pleasure maximizes, and I push through to the peak, to the orgasm, to the spilling of the seed, and it erupts out, launches across MONKEY’S PAW to land on lettuce, on tomato, on my foot and MONKEY’S tail, on the ground. MONKEY continues to stroke. To chant. To stare at my eyes. My penis recedes, becomes limp again – I back away when MONKEY releases me.

MONKEY dances atop the dissected ingredients, slick now with my seed, glittering in the moonlight, chanting to echo off the surrounding trees. MONKEY dances, I watch, the earth receives her worship, her spoils, her tribute, MONKEY dances, I retreat, disappear into the forest. MONKEY dances. MONKEY worships. MONKEY tributes. MONKEY lives.