Tuesday, February 22, 2011

Things I Would Say To A Lover

Your hair is the fluffiest.
Full of fiesta and pretentiousness
and fiat,

Yellow in my hands,

I'm not angry, just a little hurt.
A Little Hurt,

Tiny one.
But who am I to discuss these complicated details,
with you after the ending of a movie about
some retard's inability to speak?

Kidding, kidding.

Always kidding. I remember
just joking one time, in your face,
and suddenly
you did not find me funny anymore.

You did not feel I had the capacity
to entertain you over the long term,
or retain your inclusiveness,
in any manner.

So obviously there are a ton
of things that have to be uttered by me
upon the wind (in lieu of you)
You know what? You are no Helena Bonham Carter.


My bad, my bad. This is not 'things I would say in anger'.


What I would say to a long gone lover is:
"I'm older now."

Sunday, February 6, 2011

Things I Would Say to a Baby

If I had a baby, these are some things I would tell it. Rather than buy it all the toys in the universe.

Mythology is an extremely important concept for you to understand. No, your father is not Lucifer, or some kind of vagabond creature let loose upon greater humanity -- no. He is, in fact, a myth.

Babies like myths.

They like being told about all kinds of scenarios, their brains being young and full of ability to regenerate cells (unlike you or me). They love make-believe. And they absolutely love it when you tell them that a certain thing is a certain way. It shapes who they are. They eat it up. Which is why mythology is extremely important.

A myth is a sort of story that somebody can tell, like your friend's parent that tells funny stories regarding some sort of 'God'.

In your friend's world, there is this guy, 'God', that walks around like he is the coolest damn thing since history. God ordains -- yes, ordains -- various things. He ordains, for example, that dolphins follow certain rules when interacting with humans shooting a documentary.

Babies love documentaries that have dolphins in them.

Anyway, so in your friend's world, this 'God' character roams about. This is your first introduction to mythology. Crazy, right? But it is true. This 'God' does not actually exist. It was just made up. It was made up by your friend's mom or dad. Why? Because they don't love their child enough. They don't love it enough to properly understand the ways and whiles of the world, so they just mock up some bullshit and fling it in their baby's face.

Good thing you came into my hands. Somebody that actually cares, and has taken the pain-staking time to examine mythology in full, in order to convey it successfully to you. Okay, so far everything I've said probably sounds horrid, and terrible. If I was a baby, I would be crying out, wailing, "Rubbish, rubbish!"

So it is also my job to make sure you know that mythology, despite its flaws, its fallacies and outright perjury, is actually fun. You can have fun with this, and I am going to be the one that makes sure you have all the information.

You can make mythologies. They say you can't, but I say you can. You're not a little baby--you can make it up. And it is fun!

I have to go now. But I hope that one day I will see you again, and you will tell me an amazing story.

Worst Thing Ever

"Imagine," she said, standing there on her high-horse, "the worst thing ever. That is for you."

"The worst thing?" I asked (to confirm. This conversation having taken an unexpected direction).

"Absolutely the most horrible thing ever."

I think for two seconds, then shoot from the hip: "In a space station, and I am ejected into the vacuum of outer-space."

She is not impressed. Her eyes turn into red laser-beams. "What the fuck is wrong with you? I ask you about the worst thing ever, and you give me some sci-fi bullshit? Stop being such a nerd, and say something real. Something profound. Something realistic."

I go back to my devices; my notebooks and my usb drives and my Lego sets. I inspect everything for realism. For profundity. I find it, and return to her, victorius.

"I'm pregnant when they space me?" I say.

This is when the noise starts. She is furious, livid. Angry. Zones of her hairdo begin to erupt, like Vesuvius upon Pompeii. I have to return to my packaging in order to survive her fury. Only slivers of reasoning are traceable within the comfort zone I need to maintain in order to remain alive.

"I said realistic, you motherfucker!!!"...bzzt bzzt..."Why are you still in outer-space, come the fuck back home"...bzzt..."Nobody likes science fiction. So there."