Phantasmagoria

by dschapman

I cannot see; I am blind to the fact that I cannot see. I am blinded beyond all recognition. I have seen the things I can’t unsee and will not see anything new again. I have tried to change my ways, but I…

Creeping through the sweeping tides, scared to death, I spoke of dying; I said, “I am Death, come to love you all; I am not unkind, I am calm, and impartial. Speak nothing of me; I go unspoken for.” There is nothing to talk about. Discussion is gone; it has died beside me, while I knelt, and struggled to put down my burdens.

In a cavern, by the sea, the lonely mistress wept for me; she ran her fingers through her hair, her skin was damp, the mist was heavy around her waist, her eyes were dim and acquiescent; I watched her from my ship, while I sailed slowly by; and the cove, full of pearls, slowly flooded, and the sky became heavy, and the girl let out a silent high; time froze, impartial, and we ceased to exist; and time stayed frozen.

And while I wallowed, head in my hands on the verge of collapsing, starting to spin, growing dizzy, about to faint, everything hurting, everything hurt. Pain – great pain; but at least there is pain; I have realized my pain. And I know so well that pain is pure mythology, but I am feeling mythological. Cleanliness, so pure – but I am not clean. You cannot trust me. I am immoveable; I do not move, made of glass, slowly breaking, fault lines growing through my heart. Tap your hammer on my glass; sink me – I will drown.

I have seen the most people in the world, and I have loved them, I have longed for them, I have walked beside them and imagined our lives together, if our lives would come together; visions, warm, alluring. But when it rains, it rains alone. And I lament loneliness, remaining alone.

I have seen the deconstructions…

If this is me living, then I’m a survivor; I faced the gaze of nothing – I fled; and I, ashamed, built steadily this cell around me, and I swallowed the key.

Green light at the end of the pier, and the fluttering ends of a long cotton coat; apples hanging from the trees, heavy-laden golden boughs; what has happened to the apple pickers? Rags snagged upon the pointed limbs; worms, long and thick, in the streets. Cotton in the gutters – I have knelt on my knees in the cotton. I am losing my head. My directions were wrong. I am confused. My altar is empty. I am begging, on my knees.

And in my car, I use premium gas. The lyre in the woodland – Orpheus – Orestes, full of hope, lying down; I drive fast through the woods. Chariot of flames, the blue-eyed hand of god to guide me – intuit through the darkness, life; guardian sun of the gallant condition, mankind, flourishing, falling apart; indulge me this, my one compulsion; rip me open, see me writhe.

I have worshipped heroes…

Upon my sword, by God, I’ll do it – I am a Christian, I will swear to God; I have sworn to God before, and I shall do it again; and I have suffered condemnations, and I have uttered vapid prayers, and given false confession. I shall fall upon my sword; I swear to God, I’ll do it. I should have been a better man… I could have been blessed, or at least a mechanic, someone practical.

Orange groves of washed our dreams, winding lanes, diminishing gains, a distant strangeness, something lurking in the distance; monsters, strange and ghostly, irregular forces of unfathomable knowing, the presence of the past and future, the purse of Disparity; thank God for Disparity. Prometheus, the Constructor of Men, the logicist, the poet, the benefactor; producer of fire, moulder of clay; the faithful, and the irredeemably guilty; the Creator, the Destroyer, the Protector; the prince; the burning face of madness; dreams of bands of perfect light; I am the destroyer of worlds, my hands are crushed and tired, not masculine, scrubbed clean to the bone, broken bone and scar tissue; my intentions are meaningless. I drink water from a glass. I am conceited, and I lie. Lakeside, where the children played, and the men drank and laughed by the fire, blessed pieces of devotion rang, and a choir sang from a theater built into the hillside; early morning, I am not scared.

Bold and unrepentant, Apollo’s leg brushed against my own. I loved Apollo, but I wanted him dead; and I wanted to kill him. A brutal, irredeemable killer. Cancer, growth of claws, the crab; fountain in an isle, blood; transformations, metamorphoses, similes, escalation; the curse of the pride of the mortal; the fountain of youth, and the liquor of endless discontent; power, slipping; lingering; lightning, burst; the disasters spread, the plans go wrong, the reels are all still creaking; I was scared, so I fled. I went home, to the land of my childhood, and I threw my arms around my dog, I said, Dog, do not worry; I am here. I prayed. Causality lost… selfness, slipping… slippery capitulations; there are snakes, and they slither in the walls…

Xerxes; Godhead, despondent; on the coast of the desert, a warrior died for his word, and a murderer upheld his virtues. Disparity; I am the dead at Thermopolae. I have seen the sweeping tides of men; masculinity, I have bowed to it. I have hungered. My gaze was vacant, my stare turned down; sitting down, I would stare at the ground, and slowly deconstruct it; moaning, empty pleasure; the details unclear.

I have lived in the twentieth century… It was the greatest century that could have ever been conceived. Of beauty, truth, unimpartable; the saint, the angel, clips its wings and sings of folly; economic policy, difficult lives; community or not, the fitness weakens. Heavy-handed, and proud; very interesting, and I – well, I am a genius. Feed of thought; quite sad; and unintuitive; good philosophy, beautiful men, strange-accented women, flexible legs, hard analytics; I have seen this before, I have fallen down this flight of stairs, I have owned this sacrilegous piece; I look at everything from a religious point of view…

Everything will be different in the future; we’re mutating.

Advertisements