Friday, January 14, 2011

Forced Writing From A Gravity Wrought Shardic Life Haze

Sparkling striped neonic blue and fuchsia low light represents youthfulness (my form of synesthesia) and lost remembrances of youthful days and whiles returned, were afterglowic, upon seeing Cat Meadow's sparkling blue and fuchsia Doc Martin boots in basement trinket form. Ansonia streets are piled high with snow erasing the cities machine concrete grid like a crow erasing the street it lands on. A nymph with rosy fuchsia-ed nose from blue frigid south pole air charms the air provoking longing-pining and filled the street with her iridescent wings glowic and butterfly poison nector cicle vent wild.

The apparition of the nymph barbed reality and caused a stress point that was subsequently ruptured spilling life manna enchanting juices from the surrounding trees, streets, quiet graffiti-ed nooks, and machine towers hosting a murder of crows perched. A lock of vibrant silveric Timber Wolf hair and jet black crow feather could be tasted on the air as Cat Meadow's child essence spirit residue remained from her dwelling thereabouts during her youthful rompings.  Her child essence spirit danced writhed frolicked in my mind providing Atlas renewed reason to sustain such romping grounds.  Cat Meadow was encountered as a child youth sprite essence glowing in song and floating on the rainbow winds of lavender tinted snowflakes filling the meadow and the frozen ice-cicled  bower limbs were still, quiet, and cool.

One crazy night I was lifted to empyrean heights by approaching the trine-colored Bifrost bridge dividing-linking Midguard (corporeal earthly realm) and Asgard (realm presided over by Odin and the pantheon of Norse Mythological figures). In a foggy haze lit by intermittent blue lightening bolts too distant to thunder, I dashed to the top of the crag that be the head of a rock formation in Quinnipiac called The Sleeping Giant. I was divinely abducted, or ether stitched, into a scheme of Loki's, the Grim Prankster of Norse Mythology, to assassinate The Sleeping Giant of Quinnipiac lying reposed-dormant just beyond the Midguard haunts of the last remaining iridescent Calicutless cat: Walled In Pond. The scheme involved Loki devising a method to align a comet's trajectory with my corporeal location with the end being a collision with me as I mounted the top of the head of The Sleeping Giant; I an oblivious kamikaze pawn, or comet homing device, fatally involved in the war between the Aesir and the Giants of Jotunheim.

The reason I mention this is that I feel I was finally in a sense struck by this comet today when I came across a song ironically and randomly through Pandora Music. Some time ago I watched a video simulation of the earth being hit by a large comet with a song in the background: Lux Aeterna; the theme for the movie Requiem for a Dream. Every leaf that blooms that is worthwhile will return in some form or another again: my faith. And so this lost leaf of a song returned to me today apparently beaming from the Harkness "Dread Spire" of Haven (New Haven but no longer "new") glaring dreadfully skyward as I sat listening enraptured by the aggressive fantasia of musical notes and arcs.

And listen I did from outside the rampart-ed gates of the gothic Yale, or Yule, citadel; the dread spire enclosed within the walls. And there I sat with my neonic blue celestial ether arc welder attempting to graffiti-glyphiti the citadel walls with a master-mind-ic symbol, propoganda, virus-esque concept idea that would be a legitimate new cuss word-slang idea that would have the weight of the red and black swastika in the minds of people today minus the holocaust-war stigma aspects. I just wanted a brilliantly insidious, devious, aggressive, superlative symbol brand-brend or iconic logo that carries the same weight as the Nazi swastika, again minus the stigma. A youthful, roguish, subversive refusal, akin to the scene from the movie Dances With Wolves, when the character Dances With Wolves realizes he is no longer a white American man and kicks his food dish at the U.S. soldier while in captivity in essence sealing his fate. And so I sit on the outskirts of the metal concrete city shard platform of Yule (Yale)/Haven (New Haven), my fate not yet decided, dreaming of my Skunk Works factories of desecration-consecration in its spawn-ic or infant stages.  An imaginary Desecrator machine mech from Mech Warrior computer games arrives at the gates of the citadel (The Citi Dell: coorporate sponsorship of The City; The City - painfully vague and spoken by people with bad nomenclature instincts; How about: The Fat Apple, New Yore Yuck un-amerika York) serendipitously, named Jayger, armed with a naizzy glitch rod - graffiti-glyphiti weaponry designed for the end of creating a brand-brend symbol idea that falls on people in a Draconian severe manner for their own good - and attempts a protocol programmed by my whim to desecrate the face of the gate and asks in a bionic droid voice, "Is it possible to desecrate this place?"

Perfect interrupted blessed moments: including lost conversation threads, incomplete or forgotten shards-fragments-shrapnel of ideas ejected from the bore hole of my life force drill with inexorable, busy drill bit, driving into the core of the matter creating an exotic network of tunnels, channels, and caverns laced with forgotten and marred gems. A lifelong saga of mining-hashing-carving the self into the foreground-existence - self actualization for the laymen - by way of the template of the soul which is used as a lathe.  The foreground, reality, existence is inserted into the lathe and my spirit essence grinds, carves, interacts with it essentially carving my face-hand-spirit print glyph trademark brand-brend into reality-existence: T.H.I.S.
Existence itself lacks perfection. The idea perfection is tainted not by a fall, but by necessity, and, trith and bitty (truth and beauty) drop naizzy yellow blue whats the anti-matter fragmentation grenades to shroud themselves like a coy doe. The process, excelsior, life, demands imperfection by necessity, yet remains apparently seamless and is adorned by the figurehead of the word: prefect-perfect; an active verb, always invigorating and causing strivence. Yet the background mechanisms themselves behind the seams are a frictionless streamlined seamless process as far as I can tell.

Yet the masses never can acknowledge the imperfections and incongruity of life, and are always in disbelief things are not "perfect" in a nagging ill humored way: "That's unbelievable," they say.  I have no idea what their reactions would be if things were in fact perfect notwithstanding that T.H.I.S., existence, the excelsior process is as close to perfection as it is going to get.

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