Friday, March 19, 2004

Demon Redux

And so it goes, the madness least one more chance to bleed blue. Is the monkey in this year of the monkey ironically and finally off their back? Can it be laid to rest peacefully? Will the pain after so many years subside? Bring on the leeches before I faint.

My Linda Blairesque head swivels aghast dreaming the redemption, that day when the pit churning deep in my stomach acids ripped another ulcer. No nails left, it was supposed to be a forgone conclusion. But such is the expectation of promise, of rank, of nobless oblige hurtled against tenacity with a lousy six seconds left. A mighty blue demon toppled then and now a frail shell of its former self peeps forth. How many poems need to be written to exorcise the purgatory infecting his mind?

This Ides of March so far bode well to erase past failings because those boys back then died for their sins. Someone please ask the Father to lead us in prayer.

Tuesday, March 16, 2004

A fortune cookied story

Her name is like a weeping willow, a black sumi-e brush drawing of a lovely tree with flowing branches. Not so long ago, she cried every night for her mother to return. But no one came.

The two strangers plunked her down between a stuffed rag doll, three bronze taels strung together by red yarn and the year you were born to choose a future. In the oak-paneled room, incense burned as the congregation clapped softly at first and then loudly. A little boy wearing a fireman's helmet scribbled his wishes in green felt-tip marker on a small pink cotton shirt. She pointed toward her fortune, oblivious to family lurking beyond the altar.

Her fate, like the twenty helium-filled balloons touching the ceiling, is sealed.

Sunday, March 14, 2004

The Return of the (other) Devil Monkey Child

The last time she slept over, all hell broke loose.

Then teeth gnashed, egoes rankled and a pretty nasty pillow fight ensued. Not quite the maelstrom of white zigzagging feathers abruptly slashed through midair by the centrifrugal force of whirring eight-point cotton on reddened flesh but enough pounds per square inch applied rapid fire to barrage any target to smithereens. Natural enemies, the two battled as if in a Texas cage match because no blood, no foul. Finally the sugar rush from their respective thirsty two ouncers of raw Coke, pure intravenous caffiene, subsided. The hard shell ground beef tacos smothered with two packets each of medium hot sauce from Taco Bell induced a food coma sometime past two in the morning and she passed out, a Shetland pony neighing aloud while he crashed and burned at the edge of the futon.

So lesson learned. This time, divide and conquer. One at a time reduces the migraine factor by half, hopefully.

Sunday, March 07, 2004

Notes on technochinoiserie

Twenty four ninety-degree angles gridlock to obscure gelid eyes intent on gentler curves. But who cares if no one remembers Hector Guimard. Yesterday a drip of red ink on watery paper shot down his femural artery, undulating past many white blood corpuscles as he looked into shards of mirrored mosaic.

Across the boulevard, east meets west. Raw silk made from celadon worms mask the worn-out squares Hans Hoffman pushed and pulled back and forth by himself. Yet flat is flat no matter how far from the Black Mountain. So does anyone besides the forgotten craftsmen really know how to reconstruct a reasonable facsimile? The old wooden model is rotted from too much sun and too many tears and will not last the winter.

Head back to the savannah and ask him to teach you a newer way. It is our only recourse.

Monday, March 01, 2004

Give Peace A Chance, Part Two, or because someone asked about Yoko again

Back in the last century during one of the graduations for the School at the Medinah Temple when staff then was "volunteered" to assist with the proceedings, my role/job/task was to police the backstage area and direct traffic as new graduates who received their diplomas walked offstage. Of course, one of the speakers receiving an honorary degree that day was her YOKOness and believe me, she put on a show worthy of her best Fluxus performances. First, in the middle of her acceptance speech, she excuses herself to potty, I mean, interrupts the flow of the entire ceremony to take a whizz. How great. Later she horns in on Bill Viola, the keynote speaker, to interject a nonsequitor or two enough to frazzle his speech. And finally she involves the whole audience in participating in a time-based conceptual piece she announces midway through the festivities. Now that is a bona fide graduation.

But of course, I digress. The real gist of the story is when a fastidious middle-aged fellow immaculately dressed in a blue blazer with gold buttons, from the looks of it, an Ivy League type, approaches me to request, "Listen, young fellow, can I ask a specific favor of you?"

No doubt, I snap to with, "Yes, sir."
"I need for you to go onstage and tell Yoko that her party will be waiting for her in the backroom backstage."
"Yes, sir."
"But, and this is very important, you must escort her to the backroom personally, understood?"
"Yes, sir. I understand, sir"
"Please do that as soon as possible."
"Of course, sir."

So when a lull occurs, I strut out onstage and nonchalantly whisper like a Secret Service agent into Yoko's ear the instructions that I've been commanded to pass along especially the part of my job to be her personal escort. Well, the ceremonies finally end and I again strut onstage and offer my arm to a weirdly discombobulated yet frail Yoko who dithers along, weaving and bobbing as we walk back to her "party". The woman is blabbering away as if stricken senile the three or so minutes it takes to go backstage and I'm literally hauling her along. Well, we arrive and first thing I hear from the guy who asked me this favor is, "How are we feeling, Yoko?"

"I'm fine," she answers in a sort of singsong but faraway tone.
"You sure?"
"It's going to be a long ride. Do you need to use the bathroom?"
"You absolutely sure?"
"Yoko, please use the washroom NOW."

Wow, I am flabbergasted. Then I realize that this guy is her manservant and she must be drugged up for whatever reason to be treated like a three year old.

The gleam shines less brightly.