Seeking the Dark Tower

On the path that eventually leads to the clearing in the woods, the Charyou Tree. Fraught with danger, fear and loss, and yet, fulfillment. Welcome.

Thursday, August 14, 2008

Mia the anger management doll

Its more or less within control now, but sometimes, rage arises unbidden and unleashed, from even the simplest thoughts that lead all the way back to that place in this cave where all the bad things are stored (and that place is RED) and tied down to hold them fast. Rage, as well as worry, frustration, all the demons that ride on my back, are the particularly large ones. I dealt with these demons fine, by writing, drawing, even reading, anything that releases the pressure valves and prevent that critical build-up of emotional potential. But in transit, there are no pads to write on, no pencil to draw, and no book to read. There's a problem. I can't just punch the next thing in front of me.

Early on I had to resort to 911-dial-a-friend-in-need, but how much credit do i have in the friend-bank? Better not run myself a pauper in that department, so i turn to other self avenues. Punching walls is a no-no for me now; i've busted, then realigned my knuckles more than enough times to care for that. Music, strong rageful music that hurt your ears so much you might forget the other hurt be strong medicine, but like all strong medicines, this one comes with a price - blasted ears. Not viable for long. Hence i've taken to bloody hippie treatments like counting to a hundred while focusing on something (a knife, a candle, a dildo, ahah. thats a laugh), but thats tame medicine, not much effective when the knob is cranked to 11, spinal tap, tap-tap zap.

Ought i get a little anger management doll, a little rag one, in which i shall vest in all my rage and sorrow when i travel? I might look spare, or worse, a psychotic sociopath, but thats for them to see and me to not care about.

She'll stare at me with her sightless beady eyes, that little bitch, and I'll direct all that anger into her, squeezing the life out of her. Still she stares Ooouuh you bad, angry man and then i'll pour in my sorrow for good measure, and she'll still stare with her sightless, souless eyes and accept everything i say.

Should emotions be a force that could be transferred between entities and objects, this doll could well kill chucky and not bat an eyelid. Not that she could, in the first place. She'll be in the barrens, the drawers, the wastelands, taking my place, my fo'special place.

What should I call her?

Ah. I think i know.


Saturday, August 09, 2008

an animal's response to the fate

Within the loom this tapestry's strung
threaded anew; woven dawn's first light

Clotho spins

Love that is but measured tempore ticks
away since day's first trembled kiss

Lachesis metes

Time shall be your friend, and enemy too
flames once kindled to allay night now consume

Atropos cuts.

The Fates thus cruel blind
to time's passing of our good times
what have we O why
bother for this transient lie?

response -

Have you forgotten what we were like then
when we were still first rate
and the day came fat with an apple in its mouth

it's no use worrying about Time
but we did have a few tricks up our sleeves
and turned some sharp corners

the whole pasture looked like our meal
we didn't need speedometers
we could manage cocktails out of ice and water

I wouldn't want to be faster
or greener than now if you were with me O you
were the best of all my days

Frank O'Hara (1926-1966)