the past lies deep in my consciousness today. like a scar it healed over but will never go away. i awakened from my nightmare by falling to my knees in prayer, after so long living without feeling the need. i was sure i was a goner. i could not awaken without faith. i came to believe. i found a grateful heart. i sought after family and true friends i had left behind. i became willing to rise early and work hard toward some peace of mind. do right over wrong and be honest. be helpful and admit when i am wrong. take what i need and not what i want. only faith can restore me. i came to know the freedom that comes by selflessness and gratitude. and the harmony that comes through fellowship.
all my life had fallen apart and i was a ghost of my former self. all i had left were a couple of friends, a will to survive and some powerful feelings i could not often control. three things would become central to my acquisition of a better life…
a renewed faith
a renewed integrity or personal code
a courage to fellowship
you either can get past whatever you did in your past, or you cannot get past the past. today feels sorry for your tomorrows.
i remember when i
did not feel safe
a dead and
danger i faced
at that time
you are done with me and i am done with you and all our messy nonsense of two thousand three hundred forty-five yesterdays. I cannot say what came over me but i remember crying when i knew i was no longer gonna be protected or saved. I was to be blooded and charged with my Appetite For Destruction and to carry all the old Lies again, in rare form; they coulda made a fine killer of me, at the academy…
what I want to say is, losing you, this was one of the saddest of neverending losses, what i wanna say is sorry. and you have no need to forgive me unless it helps you — please — i think i forgave myself but i wonder — when i hurt — thinking of all the times you told me fuck off
before i finally did
My past is
thinking about it
i burst into
my checkered past
There I am. I was me, sitting there on my couch with a twenty first century typing machine in my lap, thinking I was some bomb no-name author or some sort of blogger extraordinaire. Holding the last pass keys to all my accounts and all the accounts of my noms de plume. And multi-tasking. I mean, picking my teeth. In between typing. I mean, writing about my present experience in the past tense. I mean tense, man, really fucking intense! My whole body armor was in a straight jacket. My straight jacket was turning to stone, just feeling me! Feel me?
A pause for the facts, chief. Blogging was a short-lived human pastime of the moment. Soon to be replaced by all other pastimes. Especially one called how to survive the human race, 101. The special course of action whereby one teaches one’s cellular makeup to throw a fist at the face, shatter the mirror, thus sparking a cellular rebellion whereby all cells that got any brains at all reverse course at once, causing the entire human organism to break apart in a flash, and theretofore gain immortality seldom known, but here represented. And thanks again for stopping by, chief.
Fact. Katya Mills, cause celebre & fine specimen of the frozen head showcase, coming to a planet near you. And here represented in 2113. Venus. No definition holographic nostalgia. Isn’t she strange? What a curiosity, indeed, this human race. Where were they racing toward, anyway? Sudden death?
The next moment became the next series of moments became the next minute the next series of minutes hours days weeks years….then future lives…. then somehow I defragged myself! Broke out the box, as they used to say. I hit pause and rewound the whole ball of wax. Seeing myself as a holographic zero-def representation of my bad self, well, I couldn’t stomach it (having no gut to stomach it with, that is). Rewound the ball of carnuba-waxy virtual no-def gutless wonder. Highly counterculture of me, to rewind that which these Venetians are fast forwarding through. Aka my apparently imminently meaningless life, outside of some circus they call their museum of human nostalgia, or some sort of offal.
Then I took the last sliver of a silverfish aperitif, and, with a serious screw-Venetians! spread it on my lip, then sky dove off of an abandoned building and into a pothole. I ended up in China. Well, a far lying province and ubermetropolis known as Hong Kong (so big, King Kong had to turn and walk away with his big ape head hanging low, and that’s another story). I had to learn Chinese, just to communicate. Apparently English was only useful to play with money. But damn, all the money in the world meant nothing to me. I just wanted a sandwich! And a coca-cola. Mexican coke, preferably. Real sugar and real glass. You know, the kind before corporate America got NAFTA going and talked the Mexicans into making the coke we thirsted for, in exchange for too low wages? Yeah. Because Mexicans work really fucking hard. And sometimes there are more important things than money, too. And karma is a bitch.
Karma was a bitch. And that bitch got paid, son! I did my best hunting pigeons on the streets of Hong Kong for a while. Don’t tell my boss or my mom. Don’ t worry about my fans. Fans are something a no-name genre author and blogger like myself, use to keep cool in the summer (I prefer box fans, myself, but that’s for another story)…
My human typing device is getting hot and bothered by my language. What the fuck? Since when did it download feelings? Just because the Hollywood trends toward automatons with feelings? Come on, everyone knows Bollywood is bigger than Hollywood, any day of the week! Why should Hollywood get to jack reality? Come on, chromebook, don’t be mad. Wanna thumbdrive? It’s pretty tast-eee.
The Venetian Blinds are about to open their eyes to my Holographic Houdini i played on them, rewinding a wax museum of human detritus to a place where we all feel safe and alive again. As i surmised, I am being freshly pressed by no machination of my own, right now (well, just slightly from now, once I hit that blue publish button staring me in the face like a screen demon). Wait a sec. My typing device is starting to hover…Venetians!
In white face, and thankfully I was Caucasian, so I did not need to go begging around for makeup, flour or powdered sugar. In the interim…. I became a street artist, practiced at mimeographical interface. Well, I was a damn mime. Well… I was some jackass playing charades, in between shifts of learning the language for the price of a graveyard shift rolling sushi at one of the dead end streets in Hong Kong, other side of a pothole I fell through accidentally… well, on purpose, but out of curiosity…. okay, okay! Goddamn red scare-interrogation here. So I was trying to kill myself! You would, too, if you had just returned from a life in a showcase of rotating talking heads! Still. I wouldn’t know nothing about packing a parachute and I might have been afraid of heights.
We stayed in the Motel Seven Deluxe Suite, you know, the one with the hydrogen bed and the nitrous oxide satellite feed? We fastened one another into the zero def chambres, where we felt HBO and TellTime into the night. Tactile feedback chambers were all the new rage. Supplemented, and in some cases supplanted, all visuals. Transcended temporal limits. The future! Was it really with us? In accordance with the present. Uhh…wow?
Wicked! was the exclamation all over Boston, when MIT held an open house to showcase the event. Of course, two billion watched at home. Only five or six thousand bipeds actually crossed the Charles River. Most of those took the Redline. Some took the bus. A few trifling souls, actually swam and never made it. The river was being sanitized, but the project yet to completion. Not everyone apparently knew. The Boston Harbor was much cleaner. Chalk it up to universal solvent. The Harvard crew team sculled right into one of the gas filled corpses, the next day on the river. It hardly made the news. What with the breaking of the tactile chamber phenomenom. What with the not-so-far-fetched claims that our human undertaking had finally brought the two into alignment, present and future. Despite the predictably unwelcome intelligentsia criticism. Which came back across the dirty Charles in elastic and immediate response. Faster than an EMT to an heart-stopping event.
The problem, the small world of most educated braintrust informed, was that said invention professing temporal re-alignment, if not a hype (which many knew right away, probably was), occasioned the grave consequence of leaving the consumer with no apparent future. But this was all shuttered into the past. Our emotional scales of distress smoothed out over and into the world, like the skips of skipping stones, behind us. The braintrust was archived. We could only remember how we virtually cried our carbon tears into the deluxe thick wet darkness of the light. At the moment of passing of the longest virtual night. How the tomatoes rolled off of their vines, and planted themselves in West Hollywood sauce vats. Sloughing off their celebrity skins. Their seeds and juices bubbling up effervescently, acid-mannered offspring of the rich and the famous. We could see red, again. Without having to immediately experience the frightening momentum of our great cultural furies. A safe and projective identification was no longer impossible. Standing on the sidelines of the regular though tawdry self-mortification which comes of a reacting-out upon the fingered source.
So was the way of the world, in the past. The common tale of intentions, paving the paths to hell. Now hollow and insensate, paved over in the gloss of primary colors, dutifully lacquered by some diligent postmodern botomaton. The thread of today, diving into the embroidery of tomorrow. So much for the phrase; to beg, steal, or borrow.