'Hey how r u? Haven't texted you in a bit. Hope all is well.'
She folded up her phone and tried not to check it seconds later for a response.
The
quiet of the apartment was disturbed by the gurgle from the sink. Since
the day she moved in she'd been unable to get the super to come in and
take a look at it. She's poured Drain-O, bleach, and boiling hot water
into it hoping she'd be able to clear the pipes.
Her hand
reached out for her cell phone but she stopped herself as her fingertips
brushed up against its hard plastic. She wouldn't let him get the best
of her. He'd text back when he was free. Then they'd finally meet up.
They'd grab dinner and drinks and go dancing and then...
GURGLE BLOOP BLOP.
That
was it. This goddamn sink had gotten on her last nerve. She dug out
that snake thing her dad left in her bathroom closet. She had no idea
how to use it, but it was time to shove something in there, get whatever
muck was making this repulsive noise. She'd finally have some peace and
quiet.
After fumbling with it for a few minutes, she fed the
line down the drain and kept feeding it down further and further. There
was no resistance, though she was in a fury to get it in there and
wouldn't have noticed anyways. Eventually she ran out of snake.
She
gave it a slight tug and it held firm. It was snagged on something.
Then it jerked in her grip. It pulled itself further in. She held it
tight and pulled with all her might. But it was no use, it reeled itself
in and ripped her right off her feet, smashing her face first into to
sink.
Groggily, she tried to lift herself back up but suddenly
her face was like putty, melting into a pool, her skin slipping away
from her, sliding down into the pipes. Her muscles went slack and she
began to dissolve, dripping and oozing her way down the drain. She
thought of the foaming action of that drain cleaner she spent twenty
bucks on from Duane Reade.
Her entire being was smooshed
through a cylinder the size of a cardboard tube. She slooshed and
slopped her way inch by inch gliding down into darkness, the snake line
still dragging her through the labyrinth of plumbing. Oddly, she wasn't
even concerned, except now she couldn't check her phone to see if he
replied.
When her essence had dripped fully into a puddle upon
the floor of the cavern, she awoke. No longer of the gooey, fluid
consistency, she stood and looked around. Amber tones, a tan screen slid
before her eyes, she rubbed them, and once again saw a whole new world
of sepia. It was old-fashioned in style, vintage in substance.
Unreal
reality blown out all about her. A bedroom set, metal wire-framed
bedframe, frilly bedskirt, plush pillows of satin softness. A vanity,
wardrobe, full-length mirror and folding changing screen. The carpets
hugged her bare feet. The drapes reached out for her as they billowed in
the wind. The ceiling fan lazily turned absently.
She jumped
on the bed and rolled over onto her back. A goofy smile spread across
her lips. She couldn't help but give her body a bit of a wiggle in joy
and excitement. It was the room she had always wanted, a princess'
quarters from decades past. An escape into the simpler days of
yesteryear, when she could be a true lady.
The door eased
itself open, gliding over the bristles of the carpet one strand at a
time. He walked in, also barefoot, flowing cotton pajama pants dangling
just above his ankles, his tight stomach lifting from his waistline, his
arms tensing as they pushed open the door, then relaxing as they
dropped to his side. Then he smiled.
And it was a smile that
stole hearts, that plucked spirits from their bodies and breath from
lips. Her body had been tensed up the entire time, she realized. Her
lower back held tight just above her butt, her chest clutched, limbs
outstretched nearly off the bed. She wanted to pounce upon him.
But
before she could, he leapt on the bed and rolled around over her. He
brushed aside the hair in her eyes, curling his fingers just behind her
ear, running his hand down the back of her neck. Her eyes closed, his
palm sliding down her back, grazing the tip of her butt. She felt his
other hand coming closer, the electricity in the air, the vibrations
rippling the air between them.
Then he rubbed her belly. And
she loved his, tossing her body to and fro. Suddenly, this felt weird
though. He went from sensual to tickling her rib cage and patting her
bum. And she couldn't be happier. Her mouth opened and snapped shut a
few times, and she growled and then her tail began to wag.
She
woke up with her head in the sink, blood dripping from her nose and
flowing down into the drain. Her phone buzzed as it got a text, but she
didn't bother checking who it was.
Thursday, November 29, 2012
Friday, November 23, 2012
NW:o - malfunctioning myth alignment
11/18/12
5:36am
33 days
I am born to be King. The Crown is my bloodline; grandson to a carpenter, son of a mechanic, father of god. So much shall trail in my wake, though not all shall be destroyed.
Only that which inhibits & prohibits us from success, physical, mental & emotional, in that order, or really any which way you wish as this kingdom shall rise on the backs of hungry generals, all given a fair shake, for each shall have a piece of stake.
Lancelot lies in Wolfspider Tower, in the East, but tonight I sit sleepless in the Treehouse of the Red Fairy Queen, having bowed myself to her service, held her close as she wept as she would never, could never, before her servants.
She slumbers peacefully beneath clouds, tucked below hills & valleys, white noise raining about her figure. I became restless, channelling her tension through hanged man lifted arm & Fisher King foot. Soon, pulsing waves of faces and slices of scenes washed across my eyes in seashore symmetry.
I gave myself vision to see though the cycles of time that rotated between the seven year versions of me. Twenty-nine was a fine time, but really it was only the seedling of who I've become. Lost and unemployed, not writing, couldn't find the time between open bars and wandering the cityscape.
I refine the time and it shortens mine, threepointfive behind & 3 1/2 ahead.
The savage hatelove of my Siren mistress is stinging my ears as I cry out in tears, "JUST END THIS SERIES OF UNSYMPATHETIC JEERS!" and all before that tragic time falls in line, plummeting into todays gone far away.
Three and a half years from now I am working on my tan, with creators working for me, and though I could never imagine it, I've successfully pulled off my plan. It all gets grinding tomorrow but it's always been in motion, gathering an army, man by woman.
The visions fades as the gift remains. It's just taken up space in my brain where once there was pain, now and before and evermore, I will see, foresee, & always foresaw. An opening enlightenment to psychic powers, cracking open the day I was born.
I retreat to the lower chamber to let the Queen sleep, as it's been so long and, oh, how she needed to weep. I summon three witches to come under my spell, a new coven is needed for this oncoming Hell, and there they are, one two three: Miss, Spliff, & Roarie.
I lift my sword and drive it in me, painfully, steadily, beating it from my body, Catastrophic Tonic spewing from my veins. Helen of Troy is in need of a siege, now that the Fae call me their liege. A conquest beyond the stars sings lonely tunes within the brightest of moons.
And who better to bring them low, make them finer with softest blow? Lo, who will know their selves as simply as their skin? Rage, ladies, and sin, for your new reign is about to begin.
My naked body slips under Lion's skin in cool morning air. It will be much like this morning when it all ends. A day like any other, special and unique, unlike another, brilliant in simplicity, radiating authenticity, the world wakes up, from city to city.
And that guy that flips the switch, it's me.
5:36am
33 days
I am born to be King. The Crown is my bloodline; grandson to a carpenter, son of a mechanic, father of god. So much shall trail in my wake, though not all shall be destroyed.
Only that which inhibits & prohibits us from success, physical, mental & emotional, in that order, or really any which way you wish as this kingdom shall rise on the backs of hungry generals, all given a fair shake, for each shall have a piece of stake.
Lancelot lies in Wolfspider Tower, in the East, but tonight I sit sleepless in the Treehouse of the Red Fairy Queen, having bowed myself to her service, held her close as she wept as she would never, could never, before her servants.
She slumbers peacefully beneath clouds, tucked below hills & valleys, white noise raining about her figure. I became restless, channelling her tension through hanged man lifted arm & Fisher King foot. Soon, pulsing waves of faces and slices of scenes washed across my eyes in seashore symmetry.
I gave myself vision to see though the cycles of time that rotated between the seven year versions of me. Twenty-nine was a fine time, but really it was only the seedling of who I've become. Lost and unemployed, not writing, couldn't find the time between open bars and wandering the cityscape.
I refine the time and it shortens mine, threepointfive behind & 3 1/2 ahead.
The savage hatelove of my Siren mistress is stinging my ears as I cry out in tears, "JUST END THIS SERIES OF UNSYMPATHETIC JEERS!" and all before that tragic time falls in line, plummeting into todays gone far away.
Three and a half years from now I am working on my tan, with creators working for me, and though I could never imagine it, I've successfully pulled off my plan. It all gets grinding tomorrow but it's always been in motion, gathering an army, man by woman.
The visions fades as the gift remains. It's just taken up space in my brain where once there was pain, now and before and evermore, I will see, foresee, & always foresaw. An opening enlightenment to psychic powers, cracking open the day I was born.
I retreat to the lower chamber to let the Queen sleep, as it's been so long and, oh, how she needed to weep. I summon three witches to come under my spell, a new coven is needed for this oncoming Hell, and there they are, one two three: Miss, Spliff, & Roarie.
I lift my sword and drive it in me, painfully, steadily, beating it from my body, Catastrophic Tonic spewing from my veins. Helen of Troy is in need of a siege, now that the Fae call me their liege. A conquest beyond the stars sings lonely tunes within the brightest of moons.
And who better to bring them low, make them finer with softest blow? Lo, who will know their selves as simply as their skin? Rage, ladies, and sin, for your new reign is about to begin.
My naked body slips under Lion's skin in cool morning air. It will be much like this morning when it all ends. A day like any other, special and unique, unlike another, brilliant in simplicity, radiating authenticity, the world wakes up, from city to city.
And that guy that flips the switch, it's me.
Monday, November 5, 2012
Post 2012 NYCC
What can I write that the battle between the homeless woman and the more fortunate says:
Nothing and probably everything, exacerbated by the aggressive male shouting at his friends.
The homeless woman suddenly seems benign, and in the silent hotel rooms of comicon attendees I imagine an apathy of the reality of what is New York City in the long wait of my delivery back into Brooklyn's Lowkey waiting arms.
I write this with a pen picked up from Roll'n'Roaster which used to be on the corner of 3rd & 11th way before I really understood those cross streets. Picked up after MoCCA Fest 2004, where Chris Chua and I had a table sitting next to Sophie Crumb as Moby and his model girlfriend careened past glancing at our comic book.
I'm drunk as fuck an have spent this con and MorrisonCon in Vegas just talking to up and comers who don't have nearly the reverence of Old School characters as my generation has. They want to create and I want to get them paid.
Nothing and probably everything, exacerbated by the aggressive male shouting at his friends.
The homeless woman suddenly seems benign, and in the silent hotel rooms of comicon attendees I imagine an apathy of the reality of what is New York City in the long wait of my delivery back into Brooklyn's Lowkey waiting arms.
I write this with a pen picked up from Roll'n'Roaster which used to be on the corner of 3rd & 11th way before I really understood those cross streets. Picked up after MoCCA Fest 2004, where Chris Chua and I had a table sitting next to Sophie Crumb as Moby and his model girlfriend careened past glancing at our comic book.
I'm drunk as fuck an have spent this con and MorrisonCon in Vegas just talking to up and comers who don't have nearly the reverence of Old School characters as my generation has. They want to create and I want to get them paid.
Friday, November 2, 2012
New World: order
11/2/12
3:48am
49 days
Conspiracies, like doors of perception, or rather layers of reality, will always be one step beyond our understanding.
From my laptop I watch a live performance of a DJ with a giant mouse head with dead eyes. The crowd swarms as lights raze through the masses. A smiling lull or frantic hop within every person in unison.
God-like he plays his harmony and dictates our mood, guides our journey through celebratory significance and the swallowing up of our individual selves, basking in a moment blissed out transcendence.
Across the river the good chunk of Manhattan is drowning in darkness, swept low by Sandy's sudden attack. Brooklyn stood fine mostly but the city is dead right now. Unplugged from the grid, sick days and cancelled classes, irreparable damage done to systems.
Now I send my mystic signal out on hurricane gale force winds with the assist of a weather witch with psychic assist. Forced out into the ether the ever-tightening confluence of forces will draw together the agents I have sought out.
Just because you make a deal with the devil doesn't mean you don't have to do the work. It just guarantees the success, but only really because we create the conditions and merely need the firm handshake and dotted line to confirm our rightful place.
I wrote a book. I found myself. They thought I created god, but I merely chronicled my initiation as this begins to end. I broke free of the prison and now am on the prowl, hot with the long con, big score, best deal in town. I'm coming for what's mine.
Manhattan island is preparing itself as the landing pad for whatever great and massive construct slips through the heart of our sun and crashes into the hub of the world as we know it. The Sea wiped clean the streets, the wind throwing all debris aside, the earth vibrating in the silence of echoing traffic patterns fading away.
And when it lands, this unthinkable/unknowable behemoth, it will need to be defined, challenged, guided, helped, healed, and plugged into the system. That's where we come in.
Agent Fenris. Ragnarok. King of the World, slayer of All-Father Odin. I am a child of Loki & will soon be unleashed upon the land.
Hexagram 63.
3:48am
49 days
Conspiracies, like doors of perception, or rather layers of reality, will always be one step beyond our understanding.
From my laptop I watch a live performance of a DJ with a giant mouse head with dead eyes. The crowd swarms as lights raze through the masses. A smiling lull or frantic hop within every person in unison.
God-like he plays his harmony and dictates our mood, guides our journey through celebratory significance and the swallowing up of our individual selves, basking in a moment blissed out transcendence.
Across the river the good chunk of Manhattan is drowning in darkness, swept low by Sandy's sudden attack. Brooklyn stood fine mostly but the city is dead right now. Unplugged from the grid, sick days and cancelled classes, irreparable damage done to systems.
Now I send my mystic signal out on hurricane gale force winds with the assist of a weather witch with psychic assist. Forced out into the ether the ever-tightening confluence of forces will draw together the agents I have sought out.
Just because you make a deal with the devil doesn't mean you don't have to do the work. It just guarantees the success, but only really because we create the conditions and merely need the firm handshake and dotted line to confirm our rightful place.
I wrote a book. I found myself. They thought I created god, but I merely chronicled my initiation as this begins to end. I broke free of the prison and now am on the prowl, hot with the long con, big score, best deal in town. I'm coming for what's mine.
Manhattan island is preparing itself as the landing pad for whatever great and massive construct slips through the heart of our sun and crashes into the hub of the world as we know it. The Sea wiped clean the streets, the wind throwing all debris aside, the earth vibrating in the silence of echoing traffic patterns fading away.
And when it lands, this unthinkable/unknowable behemoth, it will need to be defined, challenged, guided, helped, healed, and plugged into the system. That's where we come in.
Agent Fenris. Ragnarok. King of the World, slayer of All-Father Odin. I am a child of Loki & will soon be unleashed upon the land.
Hexagram 63.
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