Monday, September 18, 2006

Throw in a few punctuations while you're at it.

There is a hinge on the back of my head, under my hair. If you press hard on my button nose, you will unlatch my face, causing my head to split in half, bisecting across my cheeks. The top half of my head falls back, until my eyes grace the back of my neck. The hinge is made of gold, covered in flesh. Some of you might wonder to yourself, why I have a flat spot on the top of my head (no kidding, you can rest a beer on it, but dont try it, its been done). It's there so that the top of my head can unhinge fully leaving a gaping hole two and a half inches above my neck. Go 'head push my magic nose button; open me up, now that you know how.

Once you have me open, there is only one thing to do. Which is, of course, fill me. No, you perverts, not with that. What you fill me with needs to be relatively unconventional, or it will squirt back at you. But not too unconventional, or it will seep out of my ears, making an unsightly puddle at my sides, pooling viscous fluid around both of our feet. A sticky mess you dont want to deal with, trust me darlings. So now, go 'head. Fill me. With your words words words. With your design. With your drawings and doodles, with your music, more words more words, poetry and prose. No violence please, if you can help it. Scratch that - all the violence you can muster, the more all the better. With your long over due friendship. So so long over due. The gems and gold that you quote, copy/paste. Mixes. Stir with some gin and coca-cola. No imitations please, cheap cola could upset the recipe. If you forget anything, it is imperative that is is not this; you must hold my hand while you mix. Close me up, latch me closed. Hold me by the hand and preferably by the waist (this is not necessary, just a courtesy which I would enjoy). Now shake me vigorously. Dont be alarmed if I foam at the mouth and eyes, it a natural part of the process. Now sit me in the corner and let me settle for at least one hour before you do anything to me. No less than one hour.

And now what, you ask. Oh darling, wait and see. Wait and see . . .

A lady wears her hair up.

Feet don't touch the fucking ground. I think this is what people mean when they say that they are feeling rather 'ungrounded'. Floating past you and you and you. Terrible sociable. Terribly good at being sweet and pleasant and giving that on top of my shit vibe. I think. Still though, having a hard time doing what I used to be so good at. Clearly, I cant even string together one sentence to another. What was the last one again? I've been reclusive for the last while now, and re-assimilation is a bitch my darlings. My inside parts hurt tonight. Long stories abound. Head head spinning, spinning, spinning. Probably having an anxiety attack, but the beer I am currently drinking is doing a good job of clouding over certain whatever. So keeping things and people at a safe distance. I dont mind myself. I do well by myself. Myself has needs, is the thing. That sounds trampy. It is and it isnt. Mostly isnt. Its nice to talk.

I'm a bit tired now. I will probably delete this in the morning.

Yes, it is that time. That time indeed.

Crows and octopi will make you safe. In that over-protected-rag-doll sort of way, which is the kind of safe that I am interested in.

The fantastical adventures of Juan Pedro Perez Hernandas.

Five years ago Juan Pedro left. He just wasn't around anymore. When he eventually turned up, it was discovered he ran away with the carnival, which had recently blown through town. Showed up, got a job, and left without a thought. Left the Malone's. Left the Grant's. Left his adopted name. Left it all to run a tilt-a-whirl. He called to let them know, because if there is one thing Juan Pedro knows, it is that one must worry about a mother who worries incessantly. He traveled with them. The carnies. All over the county. East, West, Inbetweenland, and the South. And in the south Juan Pedro, left the carnival and set up camp.

He started in a cotton field. Bending all day. In Texas, with migrant workers from the Mother Country. The season came and went. Day after day, becoming strong in the sun. Learning a language he had to unlearn at the age of two, when he called his new mother Ma-ma-see-ta. With the season went Juan Pedro. With the comfort of others like him. No more white-bred family, white-bred friends. No more white-bred north. No the season took Juan Pedro and his new brown friends to South Carolina. For a new crop. New work.

Juan Pedro met a little lady. The season came and went again. And again. Here resided Juan Pedro and the little lady who would break his heart. Bitch didn't care. Bitch didn't know. Bitch was young. Bitch left. Juan Pedro grew soft and comfortable. He bought a trailer and some Lamas. Shaved them once a month and spun their wool into yarn. He started a collectable store. Juan's Collectables. He gets sick sometimes. He has a weak immune system. Part of the permanent alcohol in his brain. Survives on odd jobs.

Juan Pedro comes back once a year, for Christmas. Lives with the littlest of little sisters. They spend a week together. She works but tries to make time for him. One week out of the year little sister doesn't need to worry about Juan Pedro. One week. One week.

Juan Pedro left with the carnival, but really Juan Pedro left long ago.