Today is the last day of summer. The residue of the past three months still lingers in the air, although - it feels as if he has left the city once again. I’ve grown accustomed to reading something else rather than depending on actual physical manifestations. I consume the very language that kills me, as a means of understanding my relation to his coordinates…. for I am in love with a man who travels - I’m in love with a Man that deposits money into my checking account. I never pull money out of the ATM, I use my debit card to buy toiletries and California medicinal weed online… UPS overnight.
When summer ends, New York City completely shifts as different souls pour in and out of the island. The island becomes a vessel, a conduit of the forces that are constantly in motion. Native New Yorkers who understand the danger of winter time here in the city flee as soon as they see students flooding back in for the fall semester.
This is a time where one consumes the sacred meal of ______ like that of an ancient feast. Now its strange because as I sit here pondering if other authors have used the power of “_______” in their writing…. (Oh good Lord how I love the power of ”_______”!) As I examine the power of “_______” and contemplate how it “_______” as a being unto itself.
In this very moment of clarity, it becomes apparent! And at the end of myself, I realize that the vocabulary and the memories that I currently speak have been fed to me. This new language has driven me astray from an understanding I knew too well. Do you think that perhaps if you continually meditate on something, you are bound to forget? Does practice make perfect or rather does practice start the process of deconstruction? Past vocabularies… ohhhh how I wish I could remember!
In the belly of the beast, I imagine myself in front of a judge sitting in a bar (they’re listening from this very bar, spying behind a glass pane).
Your honor, I do not have any physical evidence, other than a residue of past momentary experiences that I’ve had for the past six months: lyrics of hip hop artists and Wikipedia articles of soap operas… perhaps a video from a surveillance camera where I call a woman an Otter, you can find this on my YouTube channel.
Let’s see… may I bring a witness to the stand? My psychiatrists’ notes? - where I explain to Dr. Blum experiences of being fucked by a circle of men, of radio conversations during my time working in a factory in Philadelphia, how about the notes for when I try and explain that I spoke to a book as if I was speaking to myself in the mirror?
As I sit on Dr. Blum’s couch, I tell him of a time I had a conversation with Marsilio Ficino, who I couldn’t see, yet, instructed me that he was wearing green spectacles; this imagery is in fact the residue that I speak of. The icon of the green spectacles is a conduit of a past memory - a vocabulary that I’ve only learned so recently. A memory that I now understand as a sign of the man who slumbers in the forest.
Ficino used the Edgar Allen Poe’s short stories as a means of communicating with me. Why? Who the hell knows. I was enthusiastically ready to read about a man who killed his wife after finding a black cat lurking around behind brick walls until, all of a sudden, Poe’s words were being sewn together with an all too familiar voice. “Hello? Who’s this?”
“Listen to me, I have to now humiliate you for the Prince is very jealous… but know that what I’m about to write isn’t my own words, but the words of a Prince who wants to intertwine his story with that of Edgar’s.”
Because you’re wearing spectacles, I’ll listen…. I’ve been listening to too many voices, but hell, any man in green spectacles! why shouldn’t I listen to the one who speaks to me aesthetically? We are two tourists in a place of ancient philosophy, in mesmerizing and sacred poetry…. lets feast on chocolate Chocolate! Buenos Noches mi amor.
My evidence lays in the aesthetical, the temporal, the momentary. Perhaps what I have as the summer ends are my credit card bills and my telephone call logs. Never the less, Your Honor, the residue that is left behind from these momentary experiences is my only evidence. An evidence that isn’t my own, but created by the event that caused it.
Europe is going bananas; the dollar bill, once a receipt is ancient - meaning, the representation of the representation of gold has disappeared. No longer is it physical, no longer can we see it, no longer do we fear something that is physical - we fear that which has absolute power! No longer do we fear the burden of our bodies - our bodies that have heavy ladened. We understand that there is a dialogue beneath the physical word - but beyond that, the physical word is actually physical! There lays danger ahead as long as we keep abstracting the abstract; losing the memory of the language all together. But to remain optimistic, it will never-the-less be one step further in representation, or rather, imitation.
Lil Wayne told me that I had slept with my attorney. Surely, I adapted this memory, as if this memory came from the mirrored pane (I see your eyes! Photomatoge that shit). Never-the-less, he was right. “Dwayne, you got a call from Houston, It’s Shinay!”
While his wife lays asleep, my attorney Larry David, would slip out of his apartment in Brooklyn, under street-lined trees and effortlessly make his way to my vine invested room. There, we would listen to the radio for hours on end - laying naked in the dark, waiting for the storm to pass.
But until we turn the radio off, we will lay at eachothers feet in the cloud of radiowaves, listening to stupid bitches and laughing at their misery… yet, it’s not really funny - its quite sad. “Baby, you want some matza ball soup?”
As we dig deeper with the imitation of a spiritual technology, we will continue to draw the image of the snake feeding on itself. We will continue to draw the horizon collapsing unto itself $$$. As we continue to draw these, a memory will emerge from reading hieroglyphs.
Living in the moment, a temporal metaphor that looses itself in a fantasy that conceived it will ultimately poison itself - feeding on what has been given to it for consumption.
For the nature of the metaphor is like a quarry - at night, they lay mines in the dense forest floor. Unfortunately, these mines are only triggered by motion - and I have slept for too long. In the morning, as I am still half asleep… (the man in my bed turns away because I sleep with my eyes open) I run from the spotlight blinking on.
This proves that I have dreamed!
