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Interior Landscapes
Dec. 19th, 2006 09:34 am
First & foremost, whichever of you fucktards wished for a white Christmas, I hope someone disembowels you & strangles you with your own intestines. It's bloody cold out there & I had to buy a coat I wouldn't normally consider unless I was living in Siberia. I feel a lot of sympathy for all the guys out there on the construction sites, the security guards doing their outdoor patrols, cops, homeless folk... stray dogs & cats & rats. I am, however, hoping for a vast die-off of the scorpions that rule our home.
My titanium immune system caved under the pressure. I just don't have the stamina I used to - a 9-day stretch at work surrounded by hacking snorking people, a good night of drunkness, stress from school, and my immune system waved a final finger in my health's direction. I am sick. It feels like I have about a ton of concrete slurry sitting in the middle of my lungs. I can't get a breath past my bronchial tubes to save my life, literally. Weirdly, my nose is dryer than a bone, but it still hurts like a motherfucker inside.
Other than that... I'm reading Stephen King's newest, Lisey's Story. It's about a widowed woman, once married to a writer who went places. Stephen King, I think, is writing about his own interior landscape. Clive Barker goes there, too. So do I. It's funny how much I recognize that place. The Imajica, Boo'ya Moon, whatever the name of the moment is. Ellenaj was the name I had for it when I was visiting Myriah - yes, my own name, backwards, an image of a world seen 'through the mirror darkly'. It's full of poison birds, poison gardens... raw, painful beauty. Time is strange there. You may heal faster there, but the wounds you get there run deeper. The cracks in your brain. Writers and poets have a release for what they see there - I have lost my art so it runs rampant along the edges of my psyche. The weeds have gotten out of control, the deadly flora and fauna are no longer restricted to coming out after sunset.
Thinking about my parents since I dredged up the memory stew. I'll never know the poison gardens of their marriage. I'll never know what, if anything, my mother wanted to do when she grew up. My dad was a trucker, and he was perfectly happy on the road, a ramblin' man, a travelin' man, a rollin' stone. Both my parents were artists - they could both draw when they wanted to. My dad used to draw things for me & Jody. He could imitate anything WB or Disney came up with. There was a sign on Jody's room door - it had a buzzard in a desert landscape with the legend, 'Fuck leftovers, I want to kill something!' I don't know how the 'f' word was allowed - maybe because my dad drew it, it gave it the stamp of parental approval. Maybe my mother didn't really care. My dad used to paint characters on trucks. We had an old white pick-up at one point, and he had emblazoned it with characters from a cartoon strip, Tumbleweeds (Heh, I found it) that involved cowboys & Injuns. It said something like 'The Lotsa Luck Express' & had the various braves peaking around the truck's logos & pinstripes, with the accompanying cavalry standing on top of the letters, searching the horizon. On the tailgate it had the Chief w/a balloon over his head, saying, "Did you see them? Which way did they go? How many of them were there? How long ago did they pass? I must find them - I am their Leader!" They used to decorate trucks together - my mother would do the upholstery, my dad would find out the driver's interests or CB handle & work something up off that. Every once in awhile, I'll see an old Peterbilt or IH semi in an ad or on t.v. or even on the 'Net & recognize a familiar face looking at me from the bunk door or gas tank. I wish I had a picture of our Lotsa Luck Express. My dad ended up selling it for much more than it was worth. My mother could sew. And draw flowers.
I digress... the past does funny things to your mind. Wondering if my mother had plans for herself beyond being a hausfrau, thinking about their respective artistic talents. The things I'll never know about my own past, my own parents, far outnumber the things I'll remember. They never shared their dreams or hopes or desires with me. They never gave me any grand directions in life, either, beyond 'remove plastic from dessert before placing meal in oven'. I'll never know the landscapes within my parents' skulls.
My titanium immune system caved under the pressure. I just don't have the stamina I used to - a 9-day stretch at work surrounded by hacking snorking people, a good night of drunkness, stress from school, and my immune system waved a final finger in my health's direction. I am sick. It feels like I have about a ton of concrete slurry sitting in the middle of my lungs. I can't get a breath past my bronchial tubes to save my life, literally. Weirdly, my nose is dryer than a bone, but it still hurts like a motherfucker inside.
Other than that... I'm reading Stephen King's newest, Lisey's Story. It's about a widowed woman, once married to a writer who went places. Stephen King, I think, is writing about his own interior landscape. Clive Barker goes there, too. So do I. It's funny how much I recognize that place. The Imajica, Boo'ya Moon, whatever the name of the moment is. Ellenaj was the name I had for it when I was visiting Myriah - yes, my own name, backwards, an image of a world seen 'through the mirror darkly'. It's full of poison birds, poison gardens... raw, painful beauty. Time is strange there. You may heal faster there, but the wounds you get there run deeper. The cracks in your brain. Writers and poets have a release for what they see there - I have lost my art so it runs rampant along the edges of my psyche. The weeds have gotten out of control, the deadly flora and fauna are no longer restricted to coming out after sunset.
Thinking about my parents since I dredged up the memory stew. I'll never know the poison gardens of their marriage. I'll never know what, if anything, my mother wanted to do when she grew up. My dad was a trucker, and he was perfectly happy on the road, a ramblin' man, a travelin' man, a rollin' stone. Both my parents were artists - they could both draw when they wanted to. My dad used to draw things for me & Jody. He could imitate anything WB or Disney came up with. There was a sign on Jody's room door - it had a buzzard in a desert landscape with the legend, 'Fuck leftovers, I want to kill something!' I don't know how the 'f' word was allowed - maybe because my dad drew it, it gave it the stamp of parental approval. Maybe my mother didn't really care. My dad used to paint characters on trucks. We had an old white pick-up at one point, and he had emblazoned it with characters from a cartoon strip, Tumbleweeds (Heh, I found it) that involved cowboys & Injuns. It said something like 'The Lotsa Luck Express' & had the various braves peaking around the truck's logos & pinstripes, with the accompanying cavalry standing on top of the letters, searching the horizon. On the tailgate it had the Chief w/a balloon over his head, saying, "Did you see them? Which way did they go? How many of them were there? How long ago did they pass? I must find them - I am their Leader!" They used to decorate trucks together - my mother would do the upholstery, my dad would find out the driver's interests or CB handle & work something up off that. Every once in awhile, I'll see an old Peterbilt or IH semi in an ad or on t.v. or even on the 'Net & recognize a familiar face looking at me from the bunk door or gas tank. I wish I had a picture of our Lotsa Luck Express. My dad ended up selling it for much more than it was worth. My mother could sew. And draw flowers.
I digress... the past does funny things to your mind. Wondering if my mother had plans for herself beyond being a hausfrau, thinking about their respective artistic talents. The things I'll never know about my own past, my own parents, far outnumber the things I'll remember. They never shared their dreams or hopes or desires with me. They never gave me any grand directions in life, either, beyond 'remove plastic from dessert before placing meal in oven'. I'll never know the landscapes within my parents' skulls.
