ex crossfire/hurricane (autoflash)

It is dark back here – semiquiet and semicoool. Crisp with breath fogging and the rustling of things that you hope are leaves and not unnamed arthropods stealing a fatal march on human unsuspecting bloody kind.

It is dark back here, and it is semiquiet, semicool. The violence is gone but the animal remains, furled and smiling softly.

I don’t break things, beat my head against the floor, scream bloody wordless murder into the deep, unamerican night. I am not those honest, beastly things. I grew within myself, liquifying and consuming until what went before, went.

What were Dean Moriarty, McMurphy, Dr Gonzo and Darth Vader when their madness cooled and set, when they were through? Shuffling, drooling corpses. Mad ends to mad tales, burnt-out and hurling star-stuff, irradiating minds.

And I’m some snake-landshark-pig walking tall. I’m a faded dog in a man suit. Man in a faded dogsuit. Neither, nothing, none. But I’m not so afraid, now. Not so angry. Much less likely to make mistakes.

I can see, because its eyes are behind these eyes. Our spines have aligned, this beast and I, and we are walking tall, smiling softly, curling one’s tongue across the other’s lip.

It was and is the spring of 2011, 0040, early/late. Semiquiet.
 

An autoflash. I’d rather write what’s in/ on/ around my mind as fiction than take prompts and ponder endlessly. This week I’ve read Starship Troopers, I’m most of the way through On The Road. I’m thinking of going on an american classic bender, or philosophy, or something. Take another crack at The Invisible Man. Get some ayn rand, saul bellow, norman mailer – people who thought, at least, that they were great writers. Maybe hemingway? I need more william gibson, phillip k dick, neal stephenson. maybe some more russians? I don’t know.

That up there? I’m struggling to be sure about my intentions, lately. I’m worried about what the product of my peculiar damage might be. What he’s up to.

This week, I am supposed to think of new and healthy ways to end residual physiological + behavioural effects of anxiety. I used to have outlets – violence against inanimate objects, loud arguments with my parents, screaming at the top of my lungs repeatedly for a minute. These outlets are not viable and, in their absence, I’ve taken to avoiding all possible stressors and occassionally blowing up from accumulated, incidental and unavoidable ones. That last sentence = the complete waste of the last 7 years of my life. I know, right?

So I need to figure out how to handle doing stuff. Then I need to do stuff. Why am I paying a guy for these insights? The answer, for those of you playing at home, is as follows:

Because I’m thicker than two planks.

Thankyou, goodnight