Been running on E on all week, stumbling around the library and work resembling Hans Solo from the begining of Return of the Jedi. Avg less than four (shit david) hours of sleep a night. Oh well...Finished a project for school, sent out a killer short story for mock-publication, caught a beautiful photograph of Lady benz orbiting fellow solar orbs tucked in cyber space this morning....
It's Halloween!!!!!
Sunday, October 31, 2004
Saturday, October 23, 2004
With Me Wherever I Go
...here's an excerpt from an up-n-comin' Kamikaze blogg chronicling Uncle Mike's formidable lecture last Wed at the house of Worship in Wilmette. Life and work are lovingly gettin' in the way of bloggin (god love it!)
enjoy
************
It was a perfect trenchcoat earl-grey day in Wilmette. Leafy autumnal overcast, a tad blustery. Perfect. The hard-candy colored leaves rattled off the birch spines of nearby limbs. The overcast clouds shuffled in thick cobbled strides overhead. Occasionally a thin strip of glossed light would percolate from the marble swirl above. Perfect.
Uncle Mike stopped for props along the way to the House of Worship. Much to my chagrin, Mike (who Khanum herself deemed 'The Troubleshooter' during his stint in Hafai) purchased Halloween candy and a helium balloon with the words Happy Birthday scribbled on the front.
"Whose Birthday is it?" I naively asked.
"Day-vid!" Uncle Mike barked, shaking a ruffled expression of grief from his face before guffawing at my innocence.
"Oh," I said realizing what holy day it was. "I guess I just never though of birth being an actual 'birthday' before."
Mike handed me the balloon which made me upset. The last thing I want to do was to enter the House of Worship in Wilmette, a confetti stringed balloon attached to my paw.
"Mike," I said. "We're not going to ShowBiz. This looks ridiculous."
"Just take it down to the basement where the speech is. Nobody is going to say anything."
After dropping off the props I left Mike downstairs and meditated for a long time in the Temple. The 'Prayer for Ahmad' found it's way to my lips. I said the long healing prayer, praying that God would rid me of me ego; of my coifed pride. Prayed that God would loosen my anchored arrogance allowing me somehow to become the man I'm supposed to be.
I said the prayer for the departed. I said part of the Fire tablet. I lost my vision in the satellite doily above; watching in awe as the temple's dome turned inside out, convex to concave; while my vision hallucinated in mired myopia.
I said prayers for my beloved bloggsters. For Ace overseas who's assisted me immeasurably in deciphering my muse-dotted dreams (The way she holds me I never want to wake up,) and for Daniela, who lovingly refused to meditate with me on the phone the night before, "Mistuh D, you are so funny. I can't take anything you say seriously. You are so funny Mistuh D," *smiles* and for Arya, whose token of eternal friendship remained choked in my fist as I lowered my chin and uttered the greatest name.
I then left the temple and sauntered around the gardens.
-Continuation of eveyrthing you've ever wanted-
enjoy
************
It was a perfect trenchcoat earl-grey day in Wilmette. Leafy autumnal overcast, a tad blustery. Perfect. The hard-candy colored leaves rattled off the birch spines of nearby limbs. The overcast clouds shuffled in thick cobbled strides overhead. Occasionally a thin strip of glossed light would percolate from the marble swirl above. Perfect.
Uncle Mike stopped for props along the way to the House of Worship. Much to my chagrin, Mike (who Khanum herself deemed 'The Troubleshooter' during his stint in Hafai) purchased Halloween candy and a helium balloon with the words Happy Birthday scribbled on the front.
"Whose Birthday is it?" I naively asked.
"Day-vid!" Uncle Mike barked, shaking a ruffled expression of grief from his face before guffawing at my innocence.
"Oh," I said realizing what holy day it was. "I guess I just never though of birth being an actual 'birthday' before."
Mike handed me the balloon which made me upset. The last thing I want to do was to enter the House of Worship in Wilmette, a confetti stringed balloon attached to my paw.
"Mike," I said. "We're not going to ShowBiz. This looks ridiculous."
"Just take it down to the basement where the speech is. Nobody is going to say anything."
After dropping off the props I left Mike downstairs and meditated for a long time in the Temple. The 'Prayer for Ahmad' found it's way to my lips. I said the long healing prayer, praying that God would rid me of me ego; of my coifed pride. Prayed that God would loosen my anchored arrogance allowing me somehow to become the man I'm supposed to be.
I said the prayer for the departed. I said part of the Fire tablet. I lost my vision in the satellite doily above; watching in awe as the temple's dome turned inside out, convex to concave; while my vision hallucinated in mired myopia.
I said prayers for my beloved bloggsters. For Ace overseas who's assisted me immeasurably in deciphering my muse-dotted dreams (The way she holds me I never want to wake up,) and for Daniela, who lovingly refused to meditate with me on the phone the night before, "Mistuh D, you are so funny. I can't take anything you say seriously. You are so funny Mistuh D," *smiles* and for Arya, whose token of eternal friendship remained choked in my fist as I lowered my chin and uttered the greatest name.
I then left the temple and sauntered around the gardens.
-Continuation of eveyrthing you've ever wanted-
Thursday, October 21, 2004
Love molecules
Every part of me is in love right now. All the swervy protons and nutrons and bi-polar electrons; every dessicated galactic molecule composing lil' David is in a timeless bubble. Pop me and watch my soul spill all over you like velvet syrup.
Long pending kamikaze blogg on Uncle Mike's amazing, well attended lecture and on my sojourn to wilmette. Said prayers of peace and pervasive joy for those crazy lovers who are timelessly beside me . Meditated in the Corenerstone room, snug blue talisman in paw. Last week I had a dream where I was with my mother in a Persian house that I had never seen before. Mom has always been the "cornerstone" of religion in our household. Dreams breeze on the back of my neck like droplets zipped from Lake Michigan. Saw an actual watercolor of the house of my dream in the cornerstone room. You've probably seen it too. I almost cried.
I did cry, not sob, but I allowed a stream of recognition and gratitude to inch down my cheek. I prayed the prayer for the departed over and over again; it's timesless refrain slavering from the tissue of my mouth an unconcious hymn:
O my Lord! Purify them from trespasses, dispel their sorrows, and change their darkness into light. Cause them to enter the garden of happiness, cleanse them with the most pure water, and grant them to behold Thy splendors on the loftiest mount.
It was the presence of my father. I realized that, had he not sloughed the physical cloak of his own health, of his corporeal presence, I never would have been allowed to have found all this. all this bliss. I never would have found the one thing that he spent his whole life rejoicing for in anticipation.
What greater gift is there then for a father to lay down his own life; to leave all the transient pleasures and perils this instrument of flesh bears, so that his own wayward son--his own crazy son who forged his own fall from grace long ago-- might be allowed to finally see?
Long pending kamikaze blogg on Uncle Mike's amazing, well attended lecture and on my sojourn to wilmette. Said prayers of peace and pervasive joy for those crazy lovers who are timelessly beside me . Meditated in the Corenerstone room, snug blue talisman in paw. Last week I had a dream where I was with my mother in a Persian house that I had never seen before. Mom has always been the "cornerstone" of religion in our household. Dreams breeze on the back of my neck like droplets zipped from Lake Michigan. Saw an actual watercolor of the house of my dream in the cornerstone room. You've probably seen it too. I almost cried.
I did cry, not sob, but I allowed a stream of recognition and gratitude to inch down my cheek. I prayed the prayer for the departed over and over again; it's timesless refrain slavering from the tissue of my mouth an unconcious hymn:
O my Lord! Purify them from trespasses, dispel their sorrows, and change their darkness into light. Cause them to enter the garden of happiness, cleanse them with the most pure water, and grant them to behold Thy splendors on the loftiest mount.
It was the presence of my father. I realized that, had he not sloughed the physical cloak of his own health, of his corporeal presence, I never would have been allowed to have found all this. all this bliss. I never would have found the one thing that he spent his whole life rejoicing for in anticipation.
What greater gift is there then for a father to lay down his own life; to leave all the transient pleasures and perils this instrument of flesh bears, so that his own wayward son--his own crazy son who forged his own fall from grace long ago-- might be allowed to finally see?
Saturday, October 16, 2004
Superseded
Normally cool quotes are only rserved for the Recital entry, but since ACE's analysis is brilliant and fascinating, I'll post this little ditty here:
If you give your life as a wholehearted response to love, then love will wholeheartedly respond to you. ~ Marianne Williamson
If you give your life as a wholehearted response to love, then love will wholeheartedly respond to you. ~ Marianne Williamson
Friday, October 15, 2004
Advice to Laertes'
Just had a conference with my cool creative writing prof! He's a dear friend and an amazing writer, but he told me the truth.
"You're spending too much of your creative energy bloggin."
I smiled. What started out as a one drag from Sister A's smoke turned into...wow...yeah 125,000 wayward words itching to get off my skin and into print.
I then showed my prof. pictures of Arya and Daniela. He said each of their names very slowly and with three equally weighted syllables. He then smiled. I think he knew.....
"You're spending too much of your creative energy bloggin."
I smiled. What started out as a one drag from Sister A's smoke turned into...wow...yeah 125,000 wayward words itching to get off my skin and into print.
I then showed my prof. pictures of Arya and Daniela. He said each of their names very slowly and with three equally weighted syllables. He then smiled. I think he knew.....
Thursday, October 14, 2004
Polka*Dotted Muse
I'm so thankful that I have beautiful Daniela and brilliant Ace and Arya, chicly attired in her sleek Lizard garments (she must be enrolled in the Slitherine school at Bloggwarts) smiling inside my computer screen daily. Writing is such a lonely profession and tapping out random thoughts on cyber post-it notes assuages the loneliness and makes me happy; even more so it gives me encouragement. From a Baha'i perspective bloggings been the most conducive, spiritual excercise I've partaken in since I declared one year ago this pending Monday....
I've been lacking support in college this year. From the Financial Aid office to the registrars office to the Health center to sadly, even inside the classroom. Every authority figure looks like a black coated Major league Umpire pointing their craggily old finger-tips back into the blur of the dugout. It's frustrating, cause everytime I step up to the metaphorical academic plate, I try so hard to make contact with whatever pitch is hurtled in my direction. Lately, I've been striking out, but I still have faith that as long as I keep swinging the bat, eventually, when I least expect it, I'll be circling the bases, I'll be tipping my hat, things will happen.
From an artistic standpoint I get encouragement from local Bohemians. I've feel blessed that I'm friends with so many formidable artists, a few strugglin' writers, but mainly artits and musicians who "haven't" made it yet who still, like the blissful inhabitants of my blogging Narnia, inspire me to create.
Tonight I was frustrated. My sleeping schedule is split, three hours after work (4-7am) three hours during the day between classes. I received an ugly B scribbled inside my project and I indifferently tossed the paper out in the wastebasket when lolling out of the classroom. Kurt Cobain nonchalantly launching up his $30,ooo guitar at the end of a performance, unaware of where it lands and shatters.
The teacher was pissed, but I didn't care. I was heading back to the dugout after striking out, dressed in a team uniform I had to mercilessly scramble to pay for.
After a quick power nap (where my rash is, thank god, slowly healing--thanks daniela!) I stumbled into the library and tried banging out a few sentences. Nothing. I seemed unable to type anyword showcasing the letter B.
I'm lodged in here until 2 tonight and it's full-fledged autumn in P-town. It's wet and damp and leaves are scattered like wet halloween candy a week into November. I was walking around shuffling my thoughts when I saw my friend Suze and her boyfriend. Suze is a folksinger and she was having a show tonight in the student center.
Although Suze is about the size of Paddington bear, her heart is about the size of Texas. She sings these AMAZING acoustic folk songs. Her voice BELLOWS! Her lungs must drip into her kneecaps. It's almost like watching a hippie-ewok keen like Billie Holiday.
Suze was opening for a duo that used to open for Dave Matthews. She still hasn't "made" it yet but she seems so content just telling stories, drifting into the occasional cover tune, blithely orchestrating the tips of her fingers across the chords of her acoustic belly.
The song I requested her to play (a song she wrote called "Blue") she played first and gave me a lil' wink. Through her stomping chords and crisp vibrattos and vocal crescendos she seemd to tell me that it's ok. She wrote the song a couple of years ago for a friend of her's who was manically depressed. The song seems to fluctuate through every solitary emotion I've skipped over the last decade. It's a folk anthem of hope.
Thanx Suze and beautiful fellow-bloggers, simply for being here when I need you. When you strike out with the basses loaded, it's nice coming back to the dug out and still getting a nod for your efforts.
I've been lacking support in college this year. From the Financial Aid office to the registrars office to the Health center to sadly, even inside the classroom. Every authority figure looks like a black coated Major league Umpire pointing their craggily old finger-tips back into the blur of the dugout. It's frustrating, cause everytime I step up to the metaphorical academic plate, I try so hard to make contact with whatever pitch is hurtled in my direction. Lately, I've been striking out, but I still have faith that as long as I keep swinging the bat, eventually, when I least expect it, I'll be circling the bases, I'll be tipping my hat, things will happen.
From an artistic standpoint I get encouragement from local Bohemians. I've feel blessed that I'm friends with so many formidable artists, a few strugglin' writers, but mainly artits and musicians who "haven't" made it yet who still, like the blissful inhabitants of my blogging Narnia, inspire me to create.
Tonight I was frustrated. My sleeping schedule is split, three hours after work (4-7am) three hours during the day between classes. I received an ugly B scribbled inside my project and I indifferently tossed the paper out in the wastebasket when lolling out of the classroom. Kurt Cobain nonchalantly launching up his $30,ooo guitar at the end of a performance, unaware of where it lands and shatters.
The teacher was pissed, but I didn't care. I was heading back to the dugout after striking out, dressed in a team uniform I had to mercilessly scramble to pay for.
After a quick power nap (where my rash is, thank god, slowly healing--thanks daniela!) I stumbled into the library and tried banging out a few sentences. Nothing. I seemed unable to type anyword showcasing the letter B.
I'm lodged in here until 2 tonight and it's full-fledged autumn in P-town. It's wet and damp and leaves are scattered like wet halloween candy a week into November. I was walking around shuffling my thoughts when I saw my friend Suze and her boyfriend. Suze is a folksinger and she was having a show tonight in the student center.
Although Suze is about the size of Paddington bear, her heart is about the size of Texas. She sings these AMAZING acoustic folk songs. Her voice BELLOWS! Her lungs must drip into her kneecaps. It's almost like watching a hippie-ewok keen like Billie Holiday.
Suze was opening for a duo that used to open for Dave Matthews. She still hasn't "made" it yet but she seems so content just telling stories, drifting into the occasional cover tune, blithely orchestrating the tips of her fingers across the chords of her acoustic belly.
The song I requested her to play (a song she wrote called "Blue") she played first and gave me a lil' wink. Through her stomping chords and crisp vibrattos and vocal crescendos she seemd to tell me that it's ok. She wrote the song a couple of years ago for a friend of her's who was manically depressed. The song seems to fluctuate through every solitary emotion I've skipped over the last decade. It's a folk anthem of hope.
Thanx Suze and beautiful fellow-bloggers, simply for being here when I need you. When you strike out with the basses loaded, it's nice coming back to the dug out and still getting a nod for your efforts.
Tuesday, October 12, 2004
WHORE
No, not just the side profession of my last three girlfriends (sorry Laurie, Elisa and Cheryl) but me whenver I get inside a bookstore. I go through periods where all I do is buy books. Over the last three days I've seriously binged purchasing two collection of short stories by Rick Bass (THE WATCH and THE HERMIT's TALE), Jim Harrison's beautiful novella LEGDENDS of the FALL, which, although it differs from the Movie, I still see vivid rainwater reflections of myself in all his creations. Anthony Doerr's OUT OF THIS WORLD stunning collection THE SHELL COLLECTOR, especially for the O. Henry Winning "The Hunter's Wife" a story I've easily read over ten times in the past two years and every time I read it oxygen is robbed from my lungs....
And hey, let's not forget literary journals. The new issue of Poets and Writers (so I can see who got published in the magazines where I was rejected) the cool avant-garde coffee table posh BLACK CLOCK. I LOVE Aimee Bender and David Foster wallace of course. And TIN HOUSE another posh favorite has an interview with George Saunders, a cool as hell writer I got the HONOR of introducing four years ago at Barabra's Bookstore in Chi-town.....
And hey, let's not forget literary journals. The new issue of Poets and Writers (so I can see who got published in the magazines where I was rejected) the cool avant-garde coffee table posh BLACK CLOCK. I LOVE Aimee Bender and David Foster wallace of course. And TIN HOUSE another posh favorite has an interview with George Saunders, a cool as hell writer I got the HONOR of introducing four years ago at Barabra's Bookstore in Chi-town.....
Concourse Beckons....
The concourse just seems to be telling me to focus on writing screenplays this semester and (duh) of course I don't listen. I don't want to roll up the cuffs of my sleeves and work in a different genre. I'd rather just milk my own eccentric ego and spaltter out sentences for long, abstruse novels that in all likelihood no one will ever read because the books themselves don't make any sense.
Thursday, October 07, 2004
...and the answer
Whether I'm standing in line for coffee, shuffling between classrooms or pecking out sentences in the computer lab AT LEAST five times a day I've grown accustomed to having people tilt their heads and inquire, "What happened to your hair?"
The answer I've decided to stick with remains the same.
"I did it for a girl..."
Usually the response elicits a wispy, "awwwwww" if asked by a female or a "dude man, your eff'ing whupped,"if male. I then finish my sentence with a grandmotherly appeasing quip:
".....my mother."
Rehashing over my life, I can honestly say that I did do everything for a girl. For that elusive angel. For that source of feminine ethos; untethered feminine enrgy that flickers what little natural talent I have into a creative inferno. Not to say that I've found her yet (indeed, I've lost and found her many, many times just to find her again) or that she has a finite name that ends in 'a' or certain distinct facial features or that her hair is a seasonal shade of autumn; or that she exists but she's playing hard to get or that she really even exists in the first place, but one thing I can honestly say that I know about myself is that I live for her; that she has not only given me life, but she has given my life meaning and It's my job to make her as happy as she's made me.
My hope is that all my Brothers reading this out there realize the power of feminine glory. It's not a bad mantra to live your life by and if you haven't realized it, my brothers, you were probably the sort of guy in high school who always thought people were looking at you in the locker room, even though there was nothing there.
The answer I've decided to stick with remains the same.
"I did it for a girl..."
Usually the response elicits a wispy, "awwwwww" if asked by a female or a "dude man, your eff'ing whupped,"if male. I then finish my sentence with a grandmotherly appeasing quip:
".....my mother."
Rehashing over my life, I can honestly say that I did do everything for a girl. For that elusive angel. For that source of feminine ethos; untethered feminine enrgy that flickers what little natural talent I have into a creative inferno. Not to say that I've found her yet (indeed, I've lost and found her many, many times just to find her again) or that she has a finite name that ends in 'a' or certain distinct facial features or that her hair is a seasonal shade of autumn; or that she exists but she's playing hard to get or that she really even exists in the first place, but one thing I can honestly say that I know about myself is that I live for her; that she has not only given me life, but she has given my life meaning and It's my job to make her as happy as she's made me.
My hope is that all my Brothers reading this out there realize the power of feminine glory. It's not a bad mantra to live your life by and if you haven't realized it, my brothers, you were probably the sort of guy in high school who always thought people were looking at you in the locker room, even though there was nothing there.
Wednesday, October 06, 2004
Midterm Melee and Wayfarer Express
Exactly six months from today I'll be stepping off a train in Oakland and kickin' it with fellow beloved blogster daniela, helping her prepare for INSIGHTS WEST at Bosch. I've opted to Amtrak it out to California so that I'll have ample time to write. It'll be my first trip out to the Pacific coast. Can't wait!!!!!
Now back to mulling for midterms......
Now back to mulling for midterms......
Tuesday, October 05, 2004
Vacant Heart Arbor
Inevitable just occured. Had the long, overdue run in with Swissy-Missy. "You cut your hair. I really liked your long hair." It was one of those hollow conversations between two people who have been inside each other who just stare at the ground and scrutinize each other's shoes. We made direct eye contact maybe once. We nodded a lot. We didn't embrace. Unlike my spiritual sistuh's loving assesment a few weeks back that "david is david is always david" I was off. I couldn't think of anything witty, charming, dapper to say. In fact, I couldn't be more OFF if I used mosquito repellent for cologne. She walked into Jester's, appeared before my face. I ruffled the paper and inopportunely flapped open to the obituaries. I asked about her school. She inquired about my writing.It was like we were standing on a broken down pier watching that vessel that was once our bodies tow off into the oceanic horizon. Eventually all that existed of potentially "us" turned out to be nothing more than a crusty, nocturnal fleck unconsciously batted from the lids of her eyes with an errant finger.
To compound matters, I was with my friend SARA. I like her a lot cause she's from a rustic, southern Illinois town. She's gentle and kind with a benevolent heart. She teaches elementary school children how to use please and thankyou and the linguitic coating that separates and a vowel from a consonant. Sara's no where near the S.M. rock-star-muse caliber, no where near the calloused slants creviced on the far end of my left palm. But her smile makes me feel special.
Anyway, after the S.M. altercation, I kept calling sara Clare. I have no reason why. It was clare. I called her Clare three times.
"She's just a friend, Clare. Sorry, Sara."
Mistuh D sulks too much. Loves too much. wants too much. Mistuh D needs to focus on his writing and try not get hurt.
To compound matters, I was with my friend SARA. I like her a lot cause she's from a rustic, southern Illinois town. She's gentle and kind with a benevolent heart. She teaches elementary school children how to use please and thankyou and the linguitic coating that separates and a vowel from a consonant. Sara's no where near the S.M. rock-star-muse caliber, no where near the calloused slants creviced on the far end of my left palm. But her smile makes me feel special.
Anyway, after the S.M. altercation, I kept calling sara Clare. I have no reason why. It was clare. I called her Clare three times.
"She's just a friend, Clare. Sorry, Sara."
Mistuh D sulks too much. Loves too much. wants too much. Mistuh D needs to focus on his writing and try not get hurt.
Saturday, October 02, 2004
Figure this one out....
I dreamt last night that I had built a log cabin somewhere in a remote Valley in Montana and it was a very Tori Amos winter outside, phallic icicles; gables of bleach white snow, prismatic flakes falling like scattered constellations--inside I was with Swissy-Missy; the tangental dream angel that nocturnally represents the universality of the female genus--that elusive Other I find myself getting glimpses of in temporal daytime, the sleek lavender shadow of her body at dusk...the totality of my creative urges splattered at the lips of her every movement....in my dreams we were drinking cider and making love in a bed heaped with afghans and blankets and at the end our bodies formed one vessel before separating and I kissed her forehead and she asked me, simply, to read to her which I did. I read Lorrie Moore's Bird's of America outloud, accompanied by the scent of candles, volleying my vision between the printed sentence and her dried-sweaty forehead which glistened like a frozen pond.
And it was perfect. I watched her body form alphabetical shapes and her lips grunt vowels as she rubbed up against me. My voice seemed to lull and tame the subtle flagellations of her body and I realized midway through that it was really Missy who was holding me up. It was Missy (Universal Centerfold of the Cosmos) that received my warbled sentences. It was her presence that I was living for--that I had sworn my allegiance to and I was content. I was happy. I had nestled my every creative and sensual and spiritual impetus into one pocketed moment that had somehow effaced all notion of time to produce one minute of peace.
At that moment I left my body. I saw myself holding the girl of my dreams and then, I watched as my body pulled out of my body; like I was struggling to slough a pair of wranglers before stepping into a pissing-hot shower.
I watched the two people (myself and the female) exhaust prayers on the bed as one pulsating organ. I was naked and the snow tempest whipped and slapped precipitating static on the side of the cabin I had built. I stepped outside and was attacked by a bear. A grizzly brown mammalian ancestor. I was naked and the bear swiped its paw in the direction of my genital. I then lunged at the feral beast, wresting my every fiber into its mane. It was like I had to protect the couple (myself and dreamissy) from the advances of the creature. It was like I knew if I didn't wound the creature the couple inside would die.
Eventually the bear lodged his paws into my genital and I writhed with furor. I lashed back at him, digging my nails into his coat, using my teeth to slowly peel his own fur from him. When I was finsinhed the bear was a pulpy carcass of bones and meat and I donned his own hide like a cape; a trophy for my kill.
When I turned around I was all alone. The cabin seemed to have never been built and the girl of my dreams was nowhere to be found. It was as if they had been scared off by my true spiritual essence while I was trying all the while to protect them.
Only then did I feel cold. The bristling wind unizpped my every pore. I tugged the bear hide tightly around my limbs but I still felt completely isolated and alone. My whole body was one frosty windshield that was about ready to crack. I felt like I had spent all this time killing myself for something and someone that did not exist and that all I had to show for my hard work was the furry remnant of the creature that had wounded my masculinty and left me out in the cold to die.
And it was perfect. I watched her body form alphabetical shapes and her lips grunt vowels as she rubbed up against me. My voice seemed to lull and tame the subtle flagellations of her body and I realized midway through that it was really Missy who was holding me up. It was Missy (Universal Centerfold of the Cosmos) that received my warbled sentences. It was her presence that I was living for--that I had sworn my allegiance to and I was content. I was happy. I had nestled my every creative and sensual and spiritual impetus into one pocketed moment that had somehow effaced all notion of time to produce one minute of peace.
At that moment I left my body. I saw myself holding the girl of my dreams and then, I watched as my body pulled out of my body; like I was struggling to slough a pair of wranglers before stepping into a pissing-hot shower.
I watched the two people (myself and the female) exhaust prayers on the bed as one pulsating organ. I was naked and the snow tempest whipped and slapped precipitating static on the side of the cabin I had built. I stepped outside and was attacked by a bear. A grizzly brown mammalian ancestor. I was naked and the bear swiped its paw in the direction of my genital. I then lunged at the feral beast, wresting my every fiber into its mane. It was like I had to protect the couple (myself and dreamissy) from the advances of the creature. It was like I knew if I didn't wound the creature the couple inside would die.
Eventually the bear lodged his paws into my genital and I writhed with furor. I lashed back at him, digging my nails into his coat, using my teeth to slowly peel his own fur from him. When I was finsinhed the bear was a pulpy carcass of bones and meat and I donned his own hide like a cape; a trophy for my kill.
When I turned around I was all alone. The cabin seemed to have never been built and the girl of my dreams was nowhere to be found. It was as if they had been scared off by my true spiritual essence while I was trying all the while to protect them.
Only then did I feel cold. The bristling wind unizpped my every pore. I tugged the bear hide tightly around my limbs but I still felt completely isolated and alone. My whole body was one frosty windshield that was about ready to crack. I felt like I had spent all this time killing myself for something and someone that did not exist and that all I had to show for my hard work was the furry remnant of the creature that had wounded my masculinty and left me out in the cold to die.
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