EVERY WARP ZONE DROPS INTO THE PAST Personal Rules, Caveats and Mores I Have Shattered Like Brittle Bones In an Ancient Mausoleum; November – December 2008
PART I
First dear reader let it be known that I accept little to no blame for some of these actions, as they have been set in motion by the machinations of fate. Fate and FM radio who began an unprecedented early coup this year at Halloween (perhaps in the employ of a not so Jolly Santa). Taking over the airwaves like a hive of Africanized honey bees, hell-bent on blocking any song from the airwaves that did not reek of holiday cheer. By November 1 their red and green striped abdomens swollen with the blood of classic rock DJ’s this blood hungry swarm had many stations playing Christmas music 24/7. By December 1 the whole town was half papered and ribboned like the awkward gift given by a child and in case you for some reason hadn’t left your house in month, more Yule tide cheer was
being pumped through hidden speakers should anyone being driven to madness try to destroy them.
{DISCLAIMER: these are not the rants of a bitter Jewish girl who has been overwhelmed by Noel. I find many of the Carols and lights quite beautiful. Rather the recounting of how a girl with a presently sensitive constitution can be pushed to what feels like the precipice of her sanity when such immersion takes place.}
{DISCLAIMER: these are not the rants of a bitter Jewish girl who has been overwhelmed by Noel. I find many of the Carols and lights quite beautiful. Rather the recounting of how a girl with a presently sensitive constitution can be pushed to what feels like the precipice of her sanity when such immersion takes place.}
 
I would imagine the early deluge of music and ‘cheer,’ is retailers reaction to the downward spiral in the economy and their deep seated fear that the true meaning of the holidays BUYING will be neglected. They may, however have put the cart before the horse, due to the fact that the jolliest of carolers have their tipping point. When the time comes round to throw the Yule log on the fire the sound of one more jingle bell may prompt an incendiary toss in another direction.} In recent years I have developed a hypersensitivity to many things, I believe it to be a physical manifestation of the way I feel about present life situations and stressors. Except for certain ones; house remixes of house remixes of house songs (can actually cause hives), drunks who can’t have a yearly income over 20K who bitch about Obama’s tax raises (they aren’t going to affect you, just man up and call him a nigger like you want. Say it you only like niggers who sell you drugs which is how you squander your 20K) being a racist will make you an ass but at least you sound like a minor informed ass, people who play the same two Allman Brothers songs on juke boxes in bars, girls who are so desperate for a boyfriend because their masters degrees or whatnot don’t validate them as humans beings so they will date any shmuck. No regard for personality, attraction, intellect or how they are treated. These girls (women?) who worship “Sex in the City,” but turn there noses up in judgment at those who engage in coitus outside of a relationship.
“Slut, harlot,” declared in their disapproving glances at each other while sipping their cosmos.
A new exciting drink which renders them classier then the sex on the beaches and long island ice teas they imbibed formerly, (wouldn’t they be shocked if they knew the Cosmo had existed since the early 1900s). Judgment declared by these former cheerleaders girls and upper east side princess’s shoved into BCBG dresses that are shoddy knock offs of the designer clothes on the show that has taught them class as they stuff their faces at wing night.
The gradual disintegration of my sense of order (which was despite what may have been apparent to the world, existed at the core of my chaos like the nucleus of a cell) required the penetration of my safety chaos. This layer surrounded my order and was understood and fixed in place by me. It is a swirling nebula that could be interpreted by no one but myself. I have no idea how it appears to others. Perhaps all who have had a glimpse, just a peek, have seen something entirely different: a desert, a bunny, a post-apocalyptic wasteland, and a garden. Like those films where with every death, those who have passed on walk into a bright light to emerge into their own personalized heaven.
Yes, if a comparison were being made... I would say we are dealing with a chaotic candy coating over an atomic center of creative calm chewy heaven.
I suppose that was not so much a comparison as an explanation, or an analogy, which is as cryptic as the theory of a nuclear candy truffle of calm and chaos swirling about housing my soul. The dense pile from which I pull my happy items as well as my thoughts looks like rubbish to the naked eye. Looks like rubbish to pretty much anyone’s eyes.
Under my discerning gaze however it is a sparkling pile of precious items both tangible and without corporeal nature. I can identify every layer. I may have digressed from my point, although I don't know why things must be so linear in order for one to absorb them, neuroplasticity people. If so then digression in this case was proving my point. Let me ponder... if I cannot pick the point back up then I have effectively disproved myself... which would be very upsetting. Yes. The nuclear chaos truffle would burst open like the Death Star, and I am afraid I would not find my way back. November, December, Christmas music and a coup of the radio channels, chaos candy coating, nucleic shell of calm… calm shell, ah yes. The rampant chaos outside the candy chaos.
My increasingly disorganized mind having slowly grown at times unable distinguish what year it is since being displaced back to child hood bedroom. This undignified uprooting coincided nicely with the apex of my 20’s and 30 approaching faster than any other year (something about it reminding me of the Lone Biker of the Apocalypse from ‘Raising Arizona’). I blame my hippie beatnik parents. While now aging and becoming uptight they somehow instilled in me this mantra of the Yippies,
“Don't trust anyone over 30,” because, this is the zinger,” they are narcs.”
My bedroom looks like a carnival had set up camp there. Then after breaking down and moving on to the next town, they had accidentally left behind the contents of one or two wagons. The old and the new are twisted about each other like ivy; Some of the boxes are so precariously placed on top of each other they appear in semi-darkness to be the ruins of a city. The walls are covered with the same posters that were placed there over a decade ago.
Einstein riding a bike.
‘Faster Pussy-Cat, Kill Kill'
an unfinished painting that I will finish one day
Same damn Formica furniture,an enormous desk. Which is the bane of my personal nesting experience. Despite my intense spite for this behemoth. I am forbidden to remove it (ever) as I apparently begged for it when I was eleven years old. If I could I would go back in time and slap myself silly outside of ‘Bed Bath and Beyond,’ or wherever this Formica albatross came from.
Oh, then the boxes, like cardboard coffins holding various pieces of my life dated from the late 1990s to the recent present. Towering about the small room giving at times giving it the ambiance of the garbage hold where Han, Princess Leia and Luke were very nearly crushed on an Imperial Cruiser.
Heavy smaller boxes filled with books have staged a coup of the entire house. Like literary foot soldiers dressed in the brown uniforms of soldiers of chaos. Despite their contents... precious words and information, they are anarchists and they are out for blood. The confusion doesn’t end in the room; it has spilled out of my corner of the universe and into the rest of the house.
My couch, an extremely generous gift from my mother via ‘Jennifer Convertibles.’ Which I had asked for, begged really,of and upon receipt was dismayed and did not have the heart to inform her of one fact. It was back breakingly painful to sit on for any extended amount of time, and the pull-out actually may have caused a case of paralysis. This ultra suede torture deviece has been temporarily placed in our dining room/living room, covered with a blanket of sorts.
Bosco (large poodle) staged a coup d etat of it, abandoning the Lazy-boy recliner he annexed when we took it from my grandfather. Clearly he saw an oppurtunity to expand the empire and was unable to resist it, he now owns it. I think ocean salvage laws are applicable here.
PART II
Bosco the poodle: epileptic with touches of attachment disorder stemming from his early childhood. My family had been alerted to his plight by the ‘Poodle Crisis Hotline,’ (yes its real). He was kept in a cage and drugged by his first owner, the man had gotten a puppy but been very taken aback that a puppy required attention and space to move about. Even more of a shock and an affront to the owner was the small pup’s proclivity to bark from time to time. Desparate for a way to control this nearly rabid beast weighing 12 lbs and with a dangerous penchant for desiring to cuddle the benevolent pet owner came up with a humane solution. Leaving the young still growing dog locked up in a small cage with his own feces and urine, while drugging him on various human tranquilizers, this solved his problem until his scrip’s ran out.
Long story short Bosco is now a Nack. His epilepsy aside; the condition being a common ailment in purebred male standard poodles. His ‘attachment,’ disorder diagnosed by mother, a certified LCSW. He has also recently been dubbed mildly autistic (also by my mother) who apparently has found a canine section of the DSM. I didn’t have health insurance for many years. Bosco has fantastic health insurance. I would never deprive him of this, as he is my furry boo. However sometimes I look at his medical care versus the level of my own over the recent past and it lights quite the politcal fire in me.
Bosco takes Zonisamide for his epilepsy, Zonisamide is a drug used for mood stabilization in bipolar humans as well as for seizure disorders. He takes this because Phenobarbital (which our last epileptic poodle Texas was on) and has a high risk of cancer of liver. Even on the Zonisamide Bosco must have blood drawn every three months to check his liver function. This blood must be sent to a laboratory at the medical school in Auburn Alabama. You see the test is so specialized and requires equipment as such that it is the only lab in the entire United States equipped to test these levels, allowing for adjusment of dosage. Bosco has also had an ear infection for almost two months now. the poor dog has been miserable. His veterinarian, a Cornell educated stud muffin if I don't mind saying so; has had him on three different antibiotics, four different ear-drops, as well as sedated him twice for some serious plucking and cleaning. When these tactics failed... Bosco was referred to a large dog dermatologist, which is the canine equivalent of an ENT. After careful examination of his records and many ear swabs it was decided he had and yeast infection... in his ears as the result of some allergy. Since there is no way to determine what his allergy is a special diet was implemented.
- Kibble made of rabbit and organic greens (no wheat)
very similar to a meal I had in a fancy French restaurant on my 23rd birthday.
-No rawhide or any chews, sweet potatoes and white potatoes are the only acceptable snacks
-Organic gluten free, sugar free, every thing free tiny, tiny, tiny biscuits, not at all satisfying.
PART III
The ‘Warp Zone Effect.' This is my theory: Upon moving home as an adult there will always be an element of regression that occurs. How intense this regression is depends on the various factors which surround the situation of the move. The factors involved in the move are extremely influential on how the prodigal childs return will go. How strong the loss of autonomy is felt or imposed upon the child (ah we have already forgotten I am an adult) is unpredictable. For some who experience a large loss of autonomy immediately (whether real or imagined) there is a reaction. This may be directly proportionally to their percieved loss. In a reaction to this time warp the confused chicklet (as we are now to refer to the adult displaced back to the nest) begins to venture out on small, unnecessary jaunts in an effort to reassure herself that indeed still have control. She has to tell the mamma bird where she is going, who with and an estimated time of return. Which if not accurate leads to a series of hysterical/scolding phone calls.
The chicklet ventures out into her old stomping grounds uneasily. Despite the familiarity of these roads and the various structurs that jut up from them, the chicklet feels ill at ease. The asphalt curves the same way, the beaches smell the same, the buildings look the same... but something just isn’t right.
There is hollowness to this landscape.
The familiar landscape is haunted with whispers; imprints of the past. Buildings seem flat like on a movie set. The places where friendships were formed, first kisses were had, liquor smuggled out of parents stashes were choked down and joints were smoked, the places where the chicklet was made into who she is seem hollow and barren. Hidden coves, parking lots, deli steps.
That one persons basements where social stereotypes were put on hold and around a mounted elks head, garlands of christmas lights and stickers from many a band. Where straight edge hard-core kids, skater brats, rude boys, white boys in low slung pants and unlaced adidas, long hair and nailed goth kids with dog collars and facial piercings all were equals. The girls were a force the equivacators and the mediators, the glue. Smart girls, one day pink haired or shorn bald, as at home in their thirft store dresses as in their homecoming ones. Star athletes, the actress, the honors students they glimmered as a constellation; individuals who together were a dazzling cluster.
The bar where a high school ID and a little bit of sass was the price of entry, and the chicklet had for her first drinks a glass of box wine and a shot of tequila. The were promptly projectile vomited onto the sidewalk. The pier adjacent to the boat house of an old mansion where kegs were hid amongst the reeds for 'liquid lunch,' on school days. The sidewalk outside a bookstore and across the street from a record store, the parking lot of the YMCA where hardcore shows were scheduled between senior activities.
The places where crushes were formed, hearts broken and alliances cemented that haven't wavered. Hadn't wavered. For the chicklet, whether or not they knew, those bright stars would never waver. A part of her had been made whole when they had joined together, chicklet was growing accustomed to not being quite whole.
All barren and silent except for the whispers, ghosts. An occasional person who might wander past feels like an extra on a movie set. The chicklet’s heart breaks a little, she desperately looks for a glimmer of her home in this strange ghostly place. She goes and sits down on pilings by the picnic table at the marina like she used to, only now she is alone. Staring at the water it blurs in front of her. A deep sadness grips her, she feels as if she can’t even breathe at times. The madness that has seeped into her life for the past year; that has driven a wedge in between her and the corporeal people, those whose ghosts she was mourned.
She only goes to the beach and the pilings at night after this. She gets Wi-Fi at the weathered picnic table so she writes there. Summer passes swiftly and the air grows chilly faster then she remembers. Some sort of deeply buried homing instinct kicks in and she heads across to the ‘Shamrock,’ in the cold, like a moth drawn to bright lights. The bright lights hide a warp zone.
WHOOSH, fuck, slipping through a crack in time or perhaps in her mind everything rewinds.
I would imagine the early deluge of music and ‘cheer,’ is retailers reaction to the downward spiral in the economy and their deep seated fear that the true meaning of the holidays BUYING will be neglected. They may, however have put the cart before the horse, due to the fact that the jolliest of carolers have their tipping point. When the time comes round to throw the Yule log on the fire the sound of one more jingle bell may prompt an incendiary toss in another direction.} In recent years I have developed a hypersensitivity to many things, I believe it to be a physical manifestation of the way I feel about present life situations and stressors. Except for certain ones; house remixes of house remixes of house songs (can actually cause hives), drunks who can’t have a yearly income over 20K who bitch about Obama’s tax raises (they aren’t going to affect you, just man up and call him a nigger like you want. Say it you only like niggers who sell you drugs which is how you squander your 20K) being a racist will make you an ass but at least you sound like a minor informed ass, people who play the same two Allman Brothers songs on juke boxes in bars, girls who are so desperate for a boyfriend because their masters degrees or whatnot don’t validate them as humans beings so they will date any shmuck. No regard for personality, attraction, intellect or how they are treated. These girls (women?) who worship “Sex in the City,” but turn there noses up in judgment at those who engage in coitus outside of a relationship.
“Slut, harlot,” declared in their disapproving glances at each other while sipping their cosmos.
A new exciting drink which renders them classier then the sex on the beaches and long island ice teas they imbibed formerly, (wouldn’t they be shocked if they knew the Cosmo had existed since the early 1900s). Judgment declared by these former cheerleaders girls and upper east side princess’s shoved into BCBG dresses that are shoddy knock offs of the designer clothes on the show that has taught them class as they stuff their faces at wing night.
The gradual disintegration of my sense of order (which was despite what may have been apparent to the world, existed at the core of my chaos like the nucleus of a cell) required the penetration of my safety chaos. This layer surrounded my order and was understood and fixed in place by me. It is a swirling nebula that could be interpreted by no one but myself. I have no idea how it appears to others. Perhaps all who have had a glimpse, just a peek, have seen something entirely different: a desert, a bunny, a post-apocalyptic wasteland, and a garden. Like those films where with every death, those who have passed on walk into a bright light to emerge into their own personalized heaven.
Yes, if a comparison were being made... I would say we are dealing with a chaotic candy coating over an atomic center of creative calm chewy heaven.
I suppose that was not so much a comparison as an explanation, or an analogy, which is as cryptic as the theory of a nuclear candy truffle of calm and chaos swirling about housing my soul. The dense pile from which I pull my happy items as well as my thoughts looks like rubbish to the naked eye. Looks like rubbish to pretty much anyone’s eyes.
Under my discerning gaze however it is a sparkling pile of precious items both tangible and without corporeal nature. I can identify every layer. I may have digressed from my point, although I don't know why things must be so linear in order for one to absorb them, neuroplasticity people. If so then digression in this case was proving my point. Let me ponder... if I cannot pick the point back up then I have effectively disproved myself... which would be very upsetting. Yes. The nuclear chaos truffle would burst open like the Death Star, and I am afraid I would not find my way back. November, December, Christmas music and a coup of the radio channels, chaos candy coating, nucleic shell of calm… calm shell, ah yes. The rampant chaos outside the candy chaos.
My increasingly disorganized mind having slowly grown at times unable distinguish what year it is since being displaced back to child hood bedroom. This undignified uprooting coincided nicely with the apex of my 20’s and 30 approaching faster than any other year (something about it reminding me of the Lone Biker of the Apocalypse from ‘Raising Arizona’). I blame my hippie beatnik parents. While now aging and becoming uptight they somehow instilled in me this mantra of the Yippies,
“Don't trust anyone over 30,” because, this is the zinger,” they are narcs.”
My bedroom looks like a carnival had set up camp there. Then after breaking down and moving on to the next town, they had accidentally left behind the contents of one or two wagons. The old and the new are twisted about each other like ivy; Some of the boxes are so precariously placed on top of each other they appear in semi-darkness to be the ruins of a city. The walls are covered with the same posters that were placed there over a decade ago.
Einstein riding a bike.
‘Faster Pussy-Cat, Kill Kill'
an unfinished painting that I will finish one day
Same damn Formica furniture,an enormous desk. Which is the bane of my personal nesting experience. Despite my intense spite for this behemoth. I am forbidden to remove it (ever) as I apparently begged for it when I was eleven years old. If I could I would go back in time and slap myself silly outside of ‘Bed Bath and Beyond,’ or wherever this Formica albatross came from.
Oh, then the boxes, like cardboard coffins holding various pieces of my life dated from the late 1990s to the recent present. Towering about the small room giving at times giving it the ambiance of the garbage hold where Han, Princess Leia and Luke were very nearly crushed on an Imperial Cruiser.
Heavy smaller boxes filled with books have staged a coup of the entire house. Like literary foot soldiers dressed in the brown uniforms of soldiers of chaos. Despite their contents... precious words and information, they are anarchists and they are out for blood. The confusion doesn’t end in the room; it has spilled out of my corner of the universe and into the rest of the house.
My couch, an extremely generous gift from my mother via ‘Jennifer Convertibles.’ Which I had asked for, begged really,of and upon receipt was dismayed and did not have the heart to inform her of one fact. It was back breakingly painful to sit on for any extended amount of time, and the pull-out actually may have caused a case of paralysis. This ultra suede torture deviece has been temporarily placed in our dining room/living room, covered with a blanket of sorts.
Bosco (large poodle) staged a coup d etat of it, abandoning the Lazy-boy recliner he annexed when we took it from my grandfather. Clearly he saw an oppurtunity to expand the empire and was unable to resist it, he now owns it. I think ocean salvage laws are applicable here.
PART II
Bosco the poodle: epileptic with touches of attachment disorder stemming from his early childhood. My family had been alerted to his plight by the ‘Poodle Crisis Hotline,’ (yes its real). He was kept in a cage and drugged by his first owner, the man had gotten a puppy but been very taken aback that a puppy required attention and space to move about. Even more of a shock and an affront to the owner was the small pup’s proclivity to bark from time to time. Desparate for a way to control this nearly rabid beast weighing 12 lbs and with a dangerous penchant for desiring to cuddle the benevolent pet owner came up with a humane solution. Leaving the young still growing dog locked up in a small cage with his own feces and urine, while drugging him on various human tranquilizers, this solved his problem until his scrip’s ran out.
Long story short Bosco is now a Nack. His epilepsy aside; the condition being a common ailment in purebred male standard poodles. His ‘attachment,’ disorder diagnosed by mother, a certified LCSW. He has also recently been dubbed mildly autistic (also by my mother) who apparently has found a canine section of the DSM. I didn’t have health insurance for many years. Bosco has fantastic health insurance. I would never deprive him of this, as he is my furry boo. However sometimes I look at his medical care versus the level of my own over the recent past and it lights quite the politcal fire in me.
Bosco takes Zonisamide for his epilepsy, Zonisamide is a drug used for mood stabilization in bipolar humans as well as for seizure disorders. He takes this because Phenobarbital (which our last epileptic poodle Texas was on) and has a high risk of cancer of liver. Even on the Zonisamide Bosco must have blood drawn every three months to check his liver function. This blood must be sent to a laboratory at the medical school in Auburn Alabama. You see the test is so specialized and requires equipment as such that it is the only lab in the entire United States equipped to test these levels, allowing for adjusment of dosage. Bosco has also had an ear infection for almost two months now. the poor dog has been miserable. His veterinarian, a Cornell educated stud muffin if I don't mind saying so; has had him on three different antibiotics, four different ear-drops, as well as sedated him twice for some serious plucking and cleaning. When these tactics failed... Bosco was referred to a large dog dermatologist, which is the canine equivalent of an ENT. After careful examination of his records and many ear swabs it was decided he had and yeast infection... in his ears as the result of some allergy. Since there is no way to determine what his allergy is a special diet was implemented.
- Kibble made of rabbit and organic greens (no wheat)
very similar to a meal I had in a fancy French restaurant on my 23rd birthday.
-No rawhide or any chews, sweet potatoes and white potatoes are the only acceptable snacks
-Organic gluten free, sugar free, every thing free tiny, tiny, tiny biscuits, not at all satisfying.
PART III
The ‘Warp Zone Effect.' This is my theory: Upon moving home as an adult there will always be an element of regression that occurs. How intense this regression is depends on the various factors which surround the situation of the move. The factors involved in the move are extremely influential on how the prodigal childs return will go. How strong the loss of autonomy is felt or imposed upon the child (ah we have already forgotten I am an adult) is unpredictable. For some who experience a large loss of autonomy immediately (whether real or imagined) there is a reaction. This may be directly proportionally to their percieved loss. In a reaction to this time warp the confused chicklet (as we are now to refer to the adult displaced back to the nest) begins to venture out on small, unnecessary jaunts in an effort to reassure herself that indeed still have control. She has to tell the mamma bird where she is going, who with and an estimated time of return. Which if not accurate leads to a series of hysterical/scolding phone calls.
The chicklet ventures out into her old stomping grounds uneasily. Despite the familiarity of these roads and the various structurs that jut up from them, the chicklet feels ill at ease. The asphalt curves the same way, the beaches smell the same, the buildings look the same... but something just isn’t right.
There is hollowness to this landscape.
The familiar landscape is haunted with whispers; imprints of the past. Buildings seem flat like on a movie set. The places where friendships were formed, first kisses were had, liquor smuggled out of parents stashes were choked down and joints were smoked, the places where the chicklet was made into who she is seem hollow and barren. Hidden coves, parking lots, deli steps.
That one persons basements where social stereotypes were put on hold and around a mounted elks head, garlands of christmas lights and stickers from many a band. Where straight edge hard-core kids, skater brats, rude boys, white boys in low slung pants and unlaced adidas, long hair and nailed goth kids with dog collars and facial piercings all were equals. The girls were a force the equivacators and the mediators, the glue. Smart girls, one day pink haired or shorn bald, as at home in their thirft store dresses as in their homecoming ones. Star athletes, the actress, the honors students they glimmered as a constellation; individuals who together were a dazzling cluster.
The bar where a high school ID and a little bit of sass was the price of entry, and the chicklet had for her first drinks a glass of box wine and a shot of tequila. The were promptly projectile vomited onto the sidewalk. The pier adjacent to the boat house of an old mansion where kegs were hid amongst the reeds for 'liquid lunch,' on school days. The sidewalk outside a bookstore and across the street from a record store, the parking lot of the YMCA where hardcore shows were scheduled between senior activities.
The places where crushes were formed, hearts broken and alliances cemented that haven't wavered. Hadn't wavered. For the chicklet, whether or not they knew, those bright stars would never waver. A part of her had been made whole when they had joined together, chicklet was growing accustomed to not being quite whole.
All barren and silent except for the whispers, ghosts. An occasional person who might wander past feels like an extra on a movie set. The chicklet’s heart breaks a little, she desperately looks for a glimmer of her home in this strange ghostly place. She goes and sits down on pilings by the picnic table at the marina like she used to, only now she is alone. Staring at the water it blurs in front of her. A deep sadness grips her, she feels as if she can’t even breathe at times. The madness that has seeped into her life for the past year; that has driven a wedge in between her and the corporeal people, those whose ghosts she was mourned.
She only goes to the beach and the pilings at night after this. She gets Wi-Fi at the weathered picnic table so she writes there. Summer passes swiftly and the air grows chilly faster then she remembers. Some sort of deeply buried homing instinct kicks in and she heads across to the ‘Shamrock,’ in the cold, like a moth drawn to bright lights. The bright lights hide a warp zone.
WHOOSH, fuck, slipping through a crack in time or perhaps in her mind everything rewinds.
“Oh, look the little chick smoking grass at the marina, wait is she? Why yes! Look at the little chicklet making out in the front seat of a tiny sports car with a man from her past.”
Cheep, cheep, cheep.
“ Chicklet must not be so little anymore as she is setting off the hazards, windshield wipers, honking the horn and turning the headlights on and off all with her ass.”
Chicklet doesn’t recall he booty being such a hazard in the past, you can put the chicklet through the looking glass but her ass holds tight to the present. Chicklet is mildly disheartened at this. Shaking off her confusion at what seems to be the reversal of time. Wondering why if she is going to be trapped in a familiar past all alone, why couldn’t she be trapped with a better ass. Tip-toeing into her house like a teenager taking advantage of her lack of curfew she becomes very aware of how her jacket smells like smoke. Fumbling for the Febreeze in the laundry room she knock the drying racks over, waking the dog, waking her mother who not really awake sleep scolds.
“ What are you doing, you are 30 years old, who acts like this. No one comes home at 4 am. I am disgusted.”
Chicklet claims the next morning that she arrived much earlier and was awakened by the dog as well.
One perk of faux 1997: Current screwy poodle not a barker.
I am sitting in the bedroom going through the strata of my belongings. Working my way through with a pick ax down into the strata of shoes and clothing for weeks. Thus far I have found the following: 45 golf balls, a cat skull, a 7 inch of 'We are the World,' a mummified human foot, a broken loom, a New York Herald dated 1795, one creepy china doll, a box of lead bullets (them round ones), what appears to be a broken wood hand, some large molars, crushed shells in some leathery thing, scrim shaw, a partial human pelvis, a weird silver ball that is hovering around the room, the shroud of Turin, the REAL hope diamond, Elvis (he is indeed dead) and I think I see Keith Richards he just waved, so think he is just taking a nap.
“Chirp-chirp, tweet-tweet.”
Little chicklet, little nestling, suffering from a crisis of self. A crisis of time, it’s suddenly non-linear progression. Wandering about forlornly, the chicklet's thoughts wander through her head. Questioning this amazingly accurate representation of her world, her home, and her memories. Is this some tear in the universe she has fallen through. Is she consigned to oblivion.
Had she really become that defunct that an unprecedented opening in the thin membrane of existence, one that quantum physicists have been trying to prove exists for decades, had stretched so gossamer thin for a but nanosecond? And...let her fall. Was she in one of the many muliverse's that supposedly pressed up against each other like, Greek pastry. Where the same worlds existed, the same timelines with minute variances?
Vienna. In Vienna men are spending their entire lives trying to prove this. Specifically that these mulitverses could never cross into each other. Chicklet did you just make the most important scientific discovery since mankind harnessed the atom? Or are you just distracting yourself from the two dimensional houses and doppelgangers.
Sometimes it helps the chicklet to think about the whole warp zone issue in third person (third bird)?
Alas, cheep-cheep dear reader; the chicklet feels that communication of the warp zone theory to you trumps her personal comfort. So I, the chicklet shall just continue on. You have heard my last cheeeeeeeeeeeeep!”
PART IV
This is the ‘warp zone theory,’ which has been alluded to in all the jibber-jabber of flat houses, extras, and gossamer threads between multiverses and such.
The previously discussed lack of autonomy that occurs a when a grown woman (chicklet,) moves back to the ‘nest,’ is of course a natural reaction. Certain grown offspring, specifically those who have already been experiencing intense feelings of failure; in other facets of life. When this happens there seems to be a very severe regression particuarly when it comes to communication (as in with mom and dad) The adult child outwardly blames this on the parents and the environment. Despite this deep down they are blaming themselves and pummeling there own ego to the point that they no longer feel they can admit wrongdoing or ask for assistance after the way they have behaved in order to cover up their insecurities. Reacting to this the chicklet/adult child/me ventures out to their old stomping grounds, unawares of the warp zone, or any possible tears in the universe. The purpose of this is to reassure them that they indeed are still have control over themselves and their actions (no matter how ill advised these actions may be), despite once again having to let the boss (Mother), where they are going, with whom and an estimated time of return. Which incidentally they did not have to do all the time in High School! So in my little sisters car (she is in Law School) where smoking is not allowed (and I at age 29 lie about it), I light a Marlboro Medium. I drive through the two dimensional streets hoping that the lights in the windows will give them life, like the first time a jack-o-lantern glows and becomes vividly alive despite having had his guts scooped out brutally by a child who doesn’t know any better. The houses are still flat and dead, the streets still dead. Both still haunted, I am not sure who is haunting them. It could be me, my memories so vivid that my own emotions are spilling over and rising from the streets like a fog. Everything is blearier at certain points. Where first kisses were had, first hearts broken, best friends made, the foundations of which we are built brick by brick. From time to time a person or two are wandering these streets, wandering to me these extras. They are just living their lives, not in my memory.
PART V
Back to the pilings, no one wanders there; the tide comes and goes, the ducks with it. A tear comes down my cheek and I think about the wedge that is blocking me from some of the people I love right now. I thought I was protecting them from things. I go back to my pilings night after night until it gets too cold, the grass has frosty tips and the ducks are gone. My small hands are too stiff to type or write. Leaving my cold safe place, I drive directly into WHOOSH bloody fucking warp zone. Mind crack, whatever it sounds like to you, I was always a big Mario brothers fan, where am I now. The ‘Shamrock,’ has very bright lights, I get Wi-Fi there as well. Shaking it off like a trooper, I sneak once again quietly into my house at 5AM? 6AM? 7Am? Once more playing a Puckish role declaring to my mother “If these visions have offended...”
Night falls once again and I grow restless and indignant. Pacing fruitlessly back and forth in my tiny room, my small memory box, and my mountains of memories. Blue Christmas lights and Liz Phair, pink hair and River Phoniex. I stomp through the decades like they are quicksand.
No comments:
Post a Comment