We

Characters, all, it would seem. We are the idealists that chop trees down to make the parchment on which we write our moralistic disquisitions. We dream of uniting all people but end up secretly trying to destroy the sun, or block its effects by hook and croook, cloak and dagger, light and shadow, nicotinic choliergic receptor antagonists and GABA agonists, by pointers and obscurities, by sad little pictures and long abstract sentences that rarely find their ends. We wear clothing which the mainstream finds ridiculous, although we never thought so or even gave much conscious deliberation to the moth-eaten and multicoloured rags we wear. The rags: like multipotent stem cells which could one day differentiate into any kind of garment: ascots, assless chaps, corsets, trenchcoats. We lament everything that doesn't happen to us efforlessly because we secretly loathe working and would like to subvert every stairwell via ridiculous stunts like packing it with jello, would like to send every load-bearing wall crashing down, and through the twilit haze of tiny particulates including asbestos emerge from the hole screaming "boo-ya!", or "OM", or "who's the bureaucrapocalyptic bitch now?". We are sexual deviants, all: little girls who kicked concrete structures harder than the boys, whose scabs glistened more than theirs, whose disses were more florid and fresh, whose rhymes were tight, faster than light, like balls of TNT about to ignite; or 20-year-old "men" looking to the inner 7-year-old girl as the idealized guiding light to proper action and conduct. We are the coven dancing around the gourd filled with beer, or rare ales with near-unknown herbal remedies thrown in for congestion, for impotence, for mono or strep throat or the avian flu. We are the chanters and chanteuses capable of hitting the high E flat which set old Wolfgang Amadeus' parietal lobe flowing out of his dura mater with a loud pop and rip. We are still sexual deviants and that last sentence did not exorcise it. The beer in the cauldron does not make us forget it. We are the people that litter all the utility poles in the city with posters for events like "slut school" or "fuck faces" or "tit fuck me Jesus" which I've already mentioned in a previous post. We are the movement growing out of the ass-end of every box-shaped bar and smoky den of opium, out of every parkette and cul-de-sac that only exists for the purposes of delivering mail, out of every sketchy alley that is sagging under erosion and hidden potholes, from every Victorian living room with 19th-century trimmings now totally steeped in the spider-like 21st century ethernet nightmares (moment of clarity: here I am describing my own living situation). We are the ones that dream angels into this world just so we can shoot them down with slingshots from the rooftops, stabbing them with wrought-iron fleurs-de-lises. We would express our deviant madness if only we knew how to line up the flesh and the orifice and how to properly lubricate all the moving parts, how to leverage the joints and stop the wooden pegs and prostetic pelvises from falling out. We are in love with speeches and repetitions--invocations--that are at once intimate and non-specific. And we like it ambiguous and left to the whims of contingency; we are the kind of people who the current weather affects disproportionately. We would like to travel the world, to scatter our weary travel-and-sand stained eyes on the pyramids and Olduvai Gorges, the Hindu Kush Mountains and Siberian fishing villages of the broad world, but we feel the world is within the 1400 or so cubic centimeters inside this dog's breakfast in our skull. We are aboive all indecisive, but incisive. We shudder at the slogan-ness of the last sentence; that's another thing: we self-reference all the time. My inner seven-year-old girl is prodding my motor homunculus to stop sitting on your fucking foot or you'll get pins and needles. We are crazy, but not pathological. Every kind of drug and fume and unction and mountebank passes us by at Dim Sum as we wheel the Lazy Susan around and around to sample from the life banquet partitioned out by language differences but smoothed over with green tea.

So I took some license. I do write what I know, but I'm a pathological exaggerator. It's my memory system: it's prone to abstraction. I can't describe features but I can describe behavioural patterns. I just switched from "we" to "me". How lonely.

Consider: "Remember that as a teenager you are in the last stage of your life when you will be happy to hear the phone is for you."