Silly Man Woman Witch of the Sea
[excerpt from an automatic writing session following a freaky nap-dream]:
[…] what… you again. you. you and your silly, slippery ways. silly lady of the sea. I see you now and again when I close my eyes to the land lovers’ lies. but you have lies of your own, don’t you. I’ve heard them uttered by all those you’ve conned into spreading your word. don’t think I’m so foolish as they. don’t think I won’t slam the door in your beautiful face. you are wily and lovely, it’s true. I even love you, though it pains me to admit this, terribly. you disguise yourself as a new boy every year or two, and I fall for it for a little while, sometimes a long while, but always, somewhere down the road to that special kind of hell you beckon me into, I recognize the subtle stench of misery ahead, and your true face is once again revealed, the dark feminine witch of the sea, where live all of my repressed fears, desires and memories. you’ve fooled me once, you’ve fooled me twice and you’ll fool me again. I have no doubt. our little game has gained an almost welcome feeling of home, at least once I figure things out. and that’s always right before your tentacles plunge me under for good, always in time to make my escape. and for that moment or two I feel alive in the struggle and proud in the triumph, which is more perhaps than most can say. and what else do I have to do? it’s all a game anyway. we make enemies of ourselves so we can battle them and feel like winners. or losers. but always like we’ve put up a good fight. the real fight always eluding us, of course, but we’re good at ignoring what we don’t want to think about. seasoned experts we are at lying to ourselves. but some of us are clever at both ends! we build lie detector brain thingies to keep ourselves alert to our own deceptions. so don’t you dare think me foolish like the others, silly man woman witch of the sea […]
Dip Your Face In My Stream of Thoughtless Words
…splicing sounds of radio men in space suits on wobbly malfunctioning space crafts, encountering martians and losing friends to the tyranny of some unknown voice in the distance who may or may not be a robot or a human, an alien or a god. the unknown sends them searching into strange curved corridors down dark passageways that seem to circle back into themselves and lead nowhere but where they have been all along. scratching the surface they find the doors are alive and can be told what to do, just like the ‘conditioned types’, men who wander and yet obey, in trances long forgotten. I cut these voices open. i break them down to their essences of meaning and sound. how I love the sound of those radio voices that still echo in the curved corridors and dark passageways of my own radio transceiver. we are radios. our brains are. though we are not our brains. we are messages, messengers, receivers and more. we are the paintings on the walls and the children below them huddled in balls, straining to hear the spacemen in the radio, eager for what they’ll encounter behind each door. we shudder with vibrant anticipation. men in masks and creatures on mars wander the reaches of our imaginations and where we leave off, they pick up. and where you leave off, i come in to save you. i come to teach you about things I barely understand myself, and you have come here to do the same for me. we are a radio symphony. we are a chorus of confused creative chaos that sometimes I want to run from, as fast as I can, and other times I want to open wide my chest and breath it all in at once and breath out something altogether different… that, my friends, is our story, but it’s bedtime and my lips are hurting from the cold, and my eyes are watering from the air that is so dry I can almost see it falling to the ground in a pile of powder, like something incinerated my entire field of vision and sucked all the water right out of the galaxy.