Monday 2 January 2012

Gotta start somewhere out of nowhere, like a flash flood of snake venom out of pink heart painted giftwrap, part II

Part I

Gotta-start-somewhere-out-of-nowhere... Part I

Part II
I've gotta start somewhere...she thought,  so why not right here? these the very words unspoken which opened up a reverb-dampening highway from her head to her heart. A long distance, if you're ever fortunate enough to start. And all that doubt (that was the reverb) always amounted to a whole lot of wasted energy down a dead end road, all that doubt which she could never trace back to source but which flattened her; that doubt suddenly ceased to be! All that verysame rushing flow of insecurity! That drainage, that trash which took dance out of step and reason from season into a sudden freeze... all that bullshit? She would have condemned it for sure, would have hung it from the rafters! Then strangled the corpse of it for hours even after. So sick it made her, for so long and weary a time. She would have exposed it to noon sun, unclothed and debunked it! She would have cut it clear through down the flank and leeched it of toxins! Then hunted the toxins down, heated them up in canola oil popping up from iron pan. Then sucked the remaining fumes of the matter, watching the dead thing past death as charred grizzle dripped down from cuts in the platter.

photo/edit by K.
I shoulda and may as well have planted all that bullshit in six feet or more of soil a hella long time ago! she told herself with some admonishment, pressing the spatula hard into the remaining griddle of old hopes long lost. To the sewers down deep would they drain, the pale tasteless no longer discernable former hopes, down deep to stay!  Underground to knock around aimlessly like hammers on iron pipes in sub-basement level areas. All that rattling silenced and out of earshot could no longer make her feel old and unable....cause all that runoff demoralization she made for damn sure got dissipated. Dissssipated. Dissipated! For damn sure! For goddamn certain. Hella gone to dirt and dissipated, forever fucking freeze dried, fucked, fried, fired to damn near charred immolation! When the fuel she used for sublimation settled, she dripped the oil into the basin and watched the water separate and bead. The goosebumps which popped up on her skin as the last of it fell down the drain, took quite awhile to recede. She felt like a sociopath who cuts back life without mercy, a killer who might not hesitate to take equal care of its own corrupt seed.

This was all so dramatic for her,  the process so cathartic. She spared no embellishment or extremity of passion, having lived her recent life flat as busts of heroin chic anorectic models of high fashion. She could no longer trash them. She was as culture-shocked and starved of self-esteem. Her Self-loathing had found her to evolve into someone or something not just alien;  utterly impossible for anyone to digest. For herself to digest. She consumed cigarrettes and alcohol and pharmaceuticals, as a constant diversion. She held herself out of reach on a ten foot pole! Consider a day walking the Mojave desert without water....hardly possible? She was that same day traded in for a night drinking diuretics in a sauna,  followed by a breakfast of dehydrated apples in a bowl of astronaut ice cream. Impossible!

That was then. The carpet she rolled out now, for her new celebrity skin, was Hollywood red. New money red. Blood-squeezed box office red. She needed to be so bold! To quiet the doubt, muffle the reverb, the self-conscious talk so creeping vine diabolical... the carpet was long like a bridal train gone transamerica. Old school in its beauty of carved redwood and exotic red crystal chandeliers. Old school the way she remembered once feeling herself. Vintage her and a good year, she recalled. The rains softened soil for an exquisite sweet crop. Her powers of creation endured well beyond the season, nonstop. Her smile and expressions made her both local yet accessible in a farmer's market-like way then, when she was young....her maidenhood caught the men's imaginations at prices reflecting highest class and quality. Equal to if not exceeding low supply market import levels.

photo by  K.

Fresh and local, in a world-embracing kinda fashion, she again found herself so enticing like that. But this time she herself got turned on. Not to be confused with vanity, she found she appealed as much to herself. Before her love stretched outward but had no real tension. Lost her form and her every careful nurtured dimension. Before long she no longer made impression. But skip all the recollections! She no longer collected. The hobbyist turned devoted to self and self-healing, and her impressions they vaulted straight to the ceiling. Still heavy on the wallet the budget the home economy, yet nothing could hold back her self-confidence... her momentum toward her vision, you see. She went from catatonic and outdated to catapulted via capitulation into a locus well beyond the atmosphere to the stars, self-refurbished and recreated.

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