That Black Forest: a story
Jan. 30th, 2005 05:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
caitri"That Black Forest"
It's where the Romans died. They marched bravely and
cluelessly and like me they never saw what was coming
until the axes had already split their skulls. Remember
that space negates number and even a legion can be fish
in the right sort of barrel. Remember also that in
medieval symbology a barrel is like a vagina because
they both have holes in them.
This is all true.
If I could have conversations with dead people then I
wonder what it would be like to talk to Bosch and Durer.
This also assumes that dead people can speak English, for
one thing. I could ask what was up with hell, and what was
up with Melancholy and the lamb? Just curious is all.
Above all, why is Melancholy an angel?
#
I am trying to communicate. This is me communicating.
Is my signal coming in clear? Can you read me?
Five by Five is not a reference to Faith but to army
radios.
#
I am sorry if I am not being clear. I am trying to be
clear. Clear is as clear does. I have a transparent face
as well as transparent thoughts and everyone knows what
I think except my doctors, who want me to be much more
complicated than I am.
They do not like it when I say I am spaghetti that is
trying to unwind itself and get rid of the meatballs.
I have not told them I feel like raw meat on a cooking
show that has been hammered out by the meat-beater thing
until it is ideally flat and is now being slapped around in
flour prior to the debasement of cooking. Remember when you
are dead you are not just dead but also possibly oiled and
fried or fricassied.
Why do I make analogies of food? Because I feel so
hungry, so starved, and yet physically I can barely make
myself take enough in.
There is no quiet also. I wish there was. There is no
communication but there is also no quiet. Things seem very
loud. Why are things loud? I wince.
#
This is me telling the truth. I do not know what truth
you want to hear but I will always tell it. Do you want the
truth I am afraid to tell or the truth that I can give you
with ease?
This is not me being difficult. This is me noting options.
One must always have options. There will be options up until
they lock you up and throw the key away, at which point the
remaining options will be to lie down and be quiet and peaceful
and wait, or to scream until you can't anymore.
A or B.
1 or 2.
0 or 1.
T or F.
Do you remember back in school when they would tell us how
to take tests and they said if you ever got stuck to always
pick B? What is B now?
B is for Black, which is a good color. It is the color, my
books say, of people who want to stand apart from others. This
is why it is worn by the clergy. (These are western books, by
the way. And Orange makes my head hurt.)
"B is for the Bay you Book at me..." [No more Bate Bing
Bole.]
Are you sorry things ended up this way? I am too. I am not
sure how it happened. Did it start that time in September when
you made me cry outside the Metro, or was it that time we had
milkshakes and you wouldn't look in my eyes, or was it the time
you ever so briefly touched my breast and I felt burned, burned
to the core of magma inside of me?
Are things over now? I do not know and you do not know
either. It feels like they should be, and it feels like they
will never end.
This is the Ragnarok of our souls and we will lacerate each
other through eternity. Is that clear?
#
This is the Black Forest in my head.
Please note by Black Forest I do not mean chocolate and
cherries though I wish I did but dirt and blood. Remember
that all things are representative and that here at least food
is a corollary.
[Did you ever read that book where words were real and
they had to be eaten? As did numbers. Subtraction Stew made
you hungrier with every bite you took. Where else have words
been real? Probably both Books of Daniel and also the ones
that come out of our mouths and sometimes our fingers.]
I am making my way along the path and that's when the
terrors come, assailed on all sides. I can scream all I
want but I am still brought down, made to bleed and cry.
There is no way out and Caesar will never get his Eagles
back.
There is no corollary to History, I am afraid. We can
talk about time streams all we want, jump from one to
another, but living in each individual and linear moment,
that's when you find that back is really backward and
you can't go there, anymore than you can go forward by
doing anything but waiting.
It sucks that life does not have a remote control.
#
Was there a point to this exercise? I thought there
was. That maybe it would make the fire in my head cool
a little.
Are there pills for that? When I have a problem
some one gives me a pill, or wants to. Some people even
say that I AM a pill, I am sure.
I am that which can make you better or more sick than
you have ever been in your life. This much we agree on.
Do pills cheapen feelings? It seems like they do.
Remember what SOMA is (except for SOMA Holiday which is
an album by Greenwheel, the first track of which is called
"Shelter." Was that on purpose or merely an interesting
exercise also?). I don't want my feelings cheapened or not
taken seriously, which is what happens all the time anyway.
Cliches do not help anyone. If doctors took writing
classes they would know that, and have better handwriting
also maybe.
It's where the Romans died. They marched bravely and
cluelessly and like me they never saw what was coming
until the axes had already split their skulls. Remember
that space negates number and even a legion can be fish
in the right sort of barrel. Remember also that in
medieval symbology a barrel is like a vagina because
they both have holes in them.
This is all true.
If I could have conversations with dead people then I
wonder what it would be like to talk to Bosch and Durer.
This also assumes that dead people can speak English, for
one thing. I could ask what was up with hell, and what was
up with Melancholy and the lamb? Just curious is all.
Above all, why is Melancholy an angel?
#
I am trying to communicate. This is me communicating.
Is my signal coming in clear? Can you read me?
Five by Five is not a reference to Faith but to army
radios.
#
I am sorry if I am not being clear. I am trying to be
clear. Clear is as clear does. I have a transparent face
as well as transparent thoughts and everyone knows what
I think except my doctors, who want me to be much more
complicated than I am.
They do not like it when I say I am spaghetti that is
trying to unwind itself and get rid of the meatballs.
I have not told them I feel like raw meat on a cooking
show that has been hammered out by the meat-beater thing
until it is ideally flat and is now being slapped around in
flour prior to the debasement of cooking. Remember when you
are dead you are not just dead but also possibly oiled and
fried or fricassied.
Why do I make analogies of food? Because I feel so
hungry, so starved, and yet physically I can barely make
myself take enough in.
There is no quiet also. I wish there was. There is no
communication but there is also no quiet. Things seem very
loud. Why are things loud? I wince.
#
This is me telling the truth. I do not know what truth
you want to hear but I will always tell it. Do you want the
truth I am afraid to tell or the truth that I can give you
with ease?
This is not me being difficult. This is me noting options.
One must always have options. There will be options up until
they lock you up and throw the key away, at which point the
remaining options will be to lie down and be quiet and peaceful
and wait, or to scream until you can't anymore.
A or B.
1 or 2.
0 or 1.
T or F.
Do you remember back in school when they would tell us how
to take tests and they said if you ever got stuck to always
pick B? What is B now?
B is for Black, which is a good color. It is the color, my
books say, of people who want to stand apart from others. This
is why it is worn by the clergy. (These are western books, by
the way. And Orange makes my head hurt.)
"B is for the Bay you Book at me..." [No more Bate Bing
Bole.]
Are you sorry things ended up this way? I am too. I am not
sure how it happened. Did it start that time in September when
you made me cry outside the Metro, or was it that time we had
milkshakes and you wouldn't look in my eyes, or was it the time
you ever so briefly touched my breast and I felt burned, burned
to the core of magma inside of me?
Are things over now? I do not know and you do not know
either. It feels like they should be, and it feels like they
will never end.
This is the Ragnarok of our souls and we will lacerate each
other through eternity. Is that clear?
#
This is the Black Forest in my head.
Please note by Black Forest I do not mean chocolate and
cherries though I wish I did but dirt and blood. Remember
that all things are representative and that here at least food
is a corollary.
[Did you ever read that book where words were real and
they had to be eaten? As did numbers. Subtraction Stew made
you hungrier with every bite you took. Where else have words
been real? Probably both Books of Daniel and also the ones
that come out of our mouths and sometimes our fingers.]
I am making my way along the path and that's when the
terrors come, assailed on all sides. I can scream all I
want but I am still brought down, made to bleed and cry.
There is no way out and Caesar will never get his Eagles
back.
There is no corollary to History, I am afraid. We can
talk about time streams all we want, jump from one to
another, but living in each individual and linear moment,
that's when you find that back is really backward and
you can't go there, anymore than you can go forward by
doing anything but waiting.
It sucks that life does not have a remote control.
#
Was there a point to this exercise? I thought there
was. That maybe it would make the fire in my head cool
a little.
Are there pills for that? When I have a problem
some one gives me a pill, or wants to. Some people even
say that I AM a pill, I am sure.
I am that which can make you better or more sick than
you have ever been in your life. This much we agree on.
Do pills cheapen feelings? It seems like they do.
Remember what SOMA is (except for SOMA Holiday which is
an album by Greenwheel, the first track of which is called
"Shelter." Was that on purpose or merely an interesting
exercise also?). I don't want my feelings cheapened or not
taken seriously, which is what happens all the time anyway.
Cliches do not help anyone. If doctors took writing
classes they would know that, and have better handwriting
also maybe.
