Jan 10, 2008


Godjesus, I am soooooooo bored (read: drunk). My mind, she wanders:

If I made a marionette of myself and it turned out to be evil, could formulate my own murder into a Shakespearian-modeled drama?

Would that marionette have a sweet name like Dr. Mr. Mouth-Breath Jr.?

Would I have to take that marionette for walks?

What if the marionette were given a misguided missive describing its own misogyny? Or my own? Would we come to terms with our likeness? Could we troll bars at closing time for trails of drunken laughter and make our mark together? Could we leave arm in arm and speak of our undying friendships though we know we are fulfilling short-time needs?

If the marionette was made of balsam, could I call him Blaster? Would anyone understand the way his name sounded like what he was made of? Balsam, Blaster?

If I were to remake him over and over until he were too small to use, would I feel regret? Would I dismiss his frame and toss him asunder without moral clause or careless infractions?

Will I ever really understand myself if I stare at my carved face for hours on end-- shaking hands waiting to sew pond water into the backs of neck-shaking swans?

Who is going to stop us of we are conjoined-- our powers combined, we could leap fences and lord over mortals like Richard III as he murdered Charles and Edward? Who will stop as we clear fences with broad smiles and barreling legs? Who will stop our contrivances and
convalescence as we cavort and caper through the cold-covered park lands?

Is this the end of self-actualization-- the death of my guise; the souring of my idealism? Is this the methodology I looked for all along-- a diminutive version of myself forcing my hand as some morose and wooden clone?

No comments: