The Man Who Used to Think Candle and Fuck Spanish.

The Man Who Used to Think Candle and Fuck Spanish

I sit now on the floor of the bathroom of the Kealini Fairmont Hotel. Initially this was going to be a philosophical treatise on the ratio and relationship of intellectualization and emotionalism, Hellenism and Romanticism, the gravitational pull of marble pillars and the moon. I can, at any time- extract the most sensible portions of this my inken bulimia, sterilize them in a hot alcohol bath, and serve them in that dish of fluorescent light bulb- philosophy. But seeing as how my whole piteous bewailment is the replacement of my heart with the gush fibrous muscle tittue divided into two atria and two ventricles- I've opted to shit all over a page instead. It vaguely resembles how I would project my ego and élan into Tom Robins, so I shall thank him for the inspiration and the moon reference- or perchance lend him a booming fuck you for turning me into a myna bird that orgasms out whatever has last entered the murky lagoon of its brown and feathery head. I sit on the bathroom floor- its frigid and tan demeanor oozing the smell of hospitals, Internet labs and my general disposition. For tonight, I finally come to terms with the fact that I no longer feel. I trudge about in the ocean- my jeans giving rapist kisses to my ankles as I hurled Shakespeare’s 64th sonnet at the moon and foam. I muttered it into the laminate of a beach chair strewn in the grass. I listened to a black man- actually to be fair he was the shade of a kit-kat bar- sing "No Woman No Cry"- that time I came close. But. As I rang into the ocean I impressed myself by kinning myself to the Demosthenes (initially I confused him with Diogenes, thus lending hypocrisy to my narcissism) the greatest rhetorician in history- and how he would stand upon the bleached Attic cliffs and connive the ocean to raise its spear against Sparta- to kick its green stockings into the hillside until it was but powder. I have never read a single one of his speeches. As I murmured my Willy Spear to the beach chair- I thought not of "Time's fell hand defaced" but rather of the mighty cleavage sitting in another chair behind me- perchance stopping her furious cell phone text-message finger-flying frenzious marathon to heave a mighty lusty sigh for the poet who whispered his Iam Shakes fore her stead. As I said, I came close to feeling when listening to "No Woman, No cry." But of course- I had to wonder if the tears that I wouldn’t quite shed were due to my woman, or no woman for that matter, or rather convincing myself that I'm susceptible to that Rastafarian brand of shamanism called Reggae- that rattles the very core of our vulnerable and intimate natures. And of course, such wonderings led me to their inherent truthfulness- for how could I formulate such complex self-analysis in the throes of emotional climax. I certainly am not thinking of anything at all in the throes of another certain climax- and no amount of headiness could begin to penetrate that particular brand of shamanism. But is that all I have left?

Fuck, man. I was a robin, and now I'm a rhinoceros. I used to sing like a puetro-rican whore shooting ping-pong balls out of her snatch at the slightest bit of stimuli. I could even act. Year after year with my royal and royally fucked up upbringing left my emotional nylon much like the neglected parachute-toy. Full of runs, frayed- and the braiding of the handles bristling with a veritable Saguaro of the thick laminate stitching. The kind that does nuclear damage to a five year olds absent hand.

Being the distastefully individual individual that I've decided to individuate myself as- I couldn't pick a normal coping mechanism. Substance abuse, thievery, compulsive destruction of a relationship, suicide, going Lady Macbeth Bat-shit were all open and promising career choices- but I had to major in philosophy. I thought and thought- jerking my brain off until every cavity of my brain oozed with neuronic semen- it hung like stalactites or goopy icicles off of my cerebellum. Brain gizz lagooned and puddled in my thalamus.

This turbid sullying thus turned the outside world sterile and hermetically sealed and on a two-for-one sale and partially hydrogenated the earth with High fructose Corn-syrup All Natural-Tasting artificial fruit flavoring. And for a while- it only did that to what hurt me. And it was great. It would heighten my enjoyment- move me from the G to the E-string in the depth it lent to the art and music that I worshipped. Whereas I had always felt the undertow- the primal resonance with the harmonies of Vividly- I now understood the symmetry and sophistication of his craft. I tacked Technique on the Backside of Unique and what was once Oblique became Tres Magnific. I was stirred. Philosophy stirred me- I was emotionally taken with dealing with the very heatrstrings of the universe- tangoing with the most massive and intricate concepts that human beings have structured their entire societies and existences around. In my palm grew statues and poleis- marble pyres and pines and steel high-rises and little elephants with squeaky (what on earth do you call an elephant noise) trunk-choffars.

But the sterile began to fester- the acid that had dissolved my wounds began to graze my flesh- seep insidiously into my treasured bits of glass and run clammy fingers over my bone marrow. I prefer the smell of Border's to that on an old bookstore. I like vanilla flavored ice cream and hot dogs with no condiments. I feel clean and safe in a hospital. I brush my teeth of the dentist allotted span twice a day.

Eventually- it grew devastating. I find myself rehearsing critiques and diatribes on a play or performance while I'm sitting in it. I wonder if I'm only reading Plato so I can put it on my bookshelf and point at it with a smug dark-toast smile when someone asks me what has shaped my thoughts and life design. I get hungry or need to piss while watching a sunset. Sick shit.

Now, I can't even cry when listening to Vivaldi's winter without hiring a private detective to do a background check on my motives. I think about myself being on stage whilst being on stage. By now- you can tell I've lost my lyrical and poetical abilities- and no longer can I draw pulsing, Technicolor, succulent and vaguely erotic fruit out of the rainforest of my imagination whenever I damn well please. I used to have such a way with words, you know.

I known what I wan to be. And What I am.

I am an electric light made to look like a candle. Nauseatingly efficient and completely incapable of shifting my hue. Devoid of midnight trysts and dusty old red leather tomes that smell like ewes and honey-colored cherry sounding violins and vice versa. I pretend to light such things- but really I light the sunburned backs of rich Jews and wasps in khaki shorts and reeking of SPF 57 as they trudge their sandy crotches in from a long day of not swimming at the beach to their tan floored shitter at the Kealini Resort on Maui. I'm really preoccupied only with shedding bland and brilliant abortion light undoubtedly onto a plaster stuccoed wall. Those piss-pants snot-nosed entitled fucking toddlers with their forty dollar floaties and SPF ridiculous undoubtedly in tow of the aforementioned Jews and Wasps. The real sham is that I try to make myself look like a candle... all the while dreading that I'm doing it for them- dreading even more that I'm doing it for myself. My light is electric- it cannot be moved by human breath or rain- and it is bleached and cheap looking. Worst of all it is immortal. The only place it belongs is on the end of an endoscopy/colonscopy joke. Giving them Jews and wasps the what-for after so many years.

I want to be the candle- desperately. I want my rich milken wax bubbling and oozing out of a rich warm orange flame. Lighting those trysts and tomes and violins. Warbling blue at the core- sappharine garlanding a sharp Russian wick with a promethean cap and melding like a butterscotch echo into the red flame without. I want not to be cauterized and galvanized into a plug with Dr. Frankenstein’s wires but to glaze into a dull copper sailboat that shall paddle through a mahogany river of a table- and when I'm done- I'm done. I want to light an unholy manuscript etched into deerskin and shadow the bust of Cicero with a long eerie disfigured halo. I want to shudder under the breath of a ruby lipped gold-spun haired goddess named Matilda or Erotica or Pythias, or something Devastatingly Spanish. I want to surrender in a clap to rain with a mournful hiss. But still, yet still, shed light. Radiate. Illuminate, touch, preach very gently. Is it so much to ask to be both vital and obsolete? Can I not be the candle?

But that is idle fancy. I'm electric now. Thomas Fuckin Swan can go masturbate- I am thoroughly filament and wires: even this, I fear- is a feeble attempt to feel again. To convince others that I feel again. I apologize... I think I’ll go take a page out of old Thomas Swan’s book and masturbate now. At least... for you, who sat through all those- so you can feel like this wretched journey was worth something... perhaps... I suppose... her name can be something Devastatingly Spanish.