270 days.
I'm freezing. Shivering in royal blue silk pj pants and a sturdy grey sweater. The BQE is billowing the wintery revenge for a premature summer. The cars cast themselves from my hometown Long Island and into the city where I lost my self.
Now I dwell atop a bong of an apartment in East Williamsburg. St. Cecilia's spires are alight outside my window, its carved beauty modestly lit from the Rectory below. Old cars and bagpipe funerals, topped off by a witty noticeboard out front. Inside I once dressed as Romeo at a burlesque prom.
Juliet and love are dead to me. They must be in order for me to maintain control of my social anxiety. Heartache is too heavy a burden for me right now. I lift my shoulders and soldier on because I am Agent Fenris, the Wolf of Ragnarok.
And are these not the end of days? Mayan Pop Culture mass minded dollars are what's being served along with the ever growing great Spectacle that is the ever expanding moment of eternal creation.
My pirate of a roommate, part Puck and Peter Pan, the human incarnation of my brother the Worldserpent, a true heir to Our father Loki, a trickster in tongue and in his own heart, is across the hall shrooming with his Japanese orchid of a love, brought together by Cupid's arrow and Spring's awakening.
This is true. It all smacks of unlikely ritual with a heavy dose of imagination riddled delusions of grandeur and a penchant for world myth. But it's actually happening as I type this.
I'm scared. I feel alone. I want to tell everyone but the void is never satisfied, continuously over analyzing every moment of interactions with people. My life has become Internet.
I drop status updates, and like, retweet, link to and consume daily. If provides for me a voyeuristically narcissistic semblance of human connection. It's comforting and frightening all at once. It is Charles Crown. All that he sees in himself.
I'm trying to wrap it in story and yank it out of me. I need to be reborn but the only one capable of weaving a myth that will allow communion with a higher deity is myself. This is my bible.
Or the sequel anyway. The first book is done and being edited. I'm going to format it up and drop it into the stream of kindled consciousness, it'll not do well, but it gives me time to work out internal issues in the tower of my mind. The Tower of Brahma.
From there I carve out a modest career in other media, but one scientist kid stumbles onto a copy, hopefully a beat up paperback from an East Village used bookstore, and it gives him an idea that he spends his life developing that changes mankind forever.
More on that later, but now that a clear timeline is presented, a life I have always thought myself incapable of fully living is within sight. The ridiculous short story I wrote in 2001 about where I would be in 2012 (blue Mohawk, faux fur vest, long hair draped so) is almost true.
Okay, I'm not that cool. I'll always feel like a poseur pretending, but man lemme tell you, everyone is faking it to make it in NYC. Rockstar is individual style splashed upon the urban scenery. Creating moments of chance and serendipity on weekends, trudging along the work week.
But if you get lazy and waver then you will get hit hard and settle in for brunch in Brooklyn. I'm tired. I just want to purely exist for a bit. My body aches, bones just popping and crunching beneath my skin. I'm cold. I can't sleep.
I dreamt. Or recalled a few dreams, I had, which is rare. Three nights long it was a white Scorpion, a rescued dog, and wrecklessly speeding away in a boat. Three acts in a self-made play? Deciphering the emotional acidity of the symbols should offer me the way out.
This may seem mad ramblings by a sad dysfunctional boy, but it is all I know. This makes sense to me. I want you to know but don't expect you to read. This is who I am. A person I have apologized for for far too long.
I do hope that this makes some manner of impact, even if it is just the self-indulgent, woeful tale of a lost lone wolf cub, bound and beaten down, or a simply the journal of a writer gone mad.
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