Because this veil it has been lifted, my eyes are wet with clarity.The world is a flurry,
A rambled, ransacked fury,
Disproportionate in length, desperate in breadth,
Base, mundane, with a squeaky, polished shine.
All surface, no depth,
No meaning but what we make,
Like a cake with no birthdays
Anniversaries or holidays to celebrate.
This is my last night as a vampire, my last night as a moonchild. My last night of lunacy. At least this particular brand of 3rd shift lunacy.
Starting tomorrow, which is really today, I am free from the confines of my employer for the next six days. On May 3rd, I return to work as a creature of the sun, a child of Sol. During the interval, I must finish packing, move, buy and move new furniture, and dance with the devil in the pale moon light.
Oh shite, who let Meatloaf in there?
My dear Jacquelyn has gotten sick again, this time contracting the stomach bug that my roommate was suffering from this past weekend. I, again, am the sole survivor, somehow naturally immune to the spreading affliction that plagues my home like zombies after a meteor landing. I played the role of good boyfriend, took care of her between fits of napping, went to the store to get the medicinal staples of stomach issues, saltines and ginger ale.
I have to make up for all the times I’m a crabby, grouchy bastard.
There was so much I wanted to say before I started typing and now it’s gone the way of the Studebaker. Only found as reproductions in the back lots of movie studios for period pictures. Of course that analogy doesn’t quite link up because that would mean that the rest of this post could be found in Los Angeles.
Which I can assure you, it cannot.
I finished The World According to Garp last night. It was quite good, though it was no Owen Meany. Owen really meant something to me, I’ve come to realize. While Garp was in a way, more biographically parallel to myself, Owen fulfilled that profound human need to connect to something bigger than ourselves, the belief, the desperate, dangerous need to believe that our lives have direction and purpose.
When we lost Owen, we lost that purpose, a perfect loop, a perfect chain, the joy and sorrow of something beautifully burning out. The absolute divine ecstasy that can only be found when one has completely exhausted one’s potential, completed one’s orbit.
Which is our purpose, after all.
Sometimes I think,
All we really want -
Our heart’s desire
Our soul’s entire
Plan, plot, scheme, and dream
Is to get home.
But like the factory
Of dear Mr. Wonka,
One must go forward to get back
Endlessly, endlessly
A never-ending track
That winds and whines and dines
To eternity and back
Veil to veil
A bigger picture
A better love
A deeper depth
To be and become
What we were in the beginning,
One.
Charles Baker Hennington was a humorless man who did not writhe in desire at his peripheral notoriety.
There is nothing left but sleep in my veins, a dumb, thumping pulse I write to suppress.
The people talking around me are driving me crazy. I can’t write when they’re talking. I can rarely write with television, movies or music playing. I think I finally understand the writer’s need for solitude. Which, of course, doesn’t explain J.K. Rowling who writes the Harry Potter books mostly in a café.
Each unto their own. Life. Path. Orbit. Spark.
The sleep falls like a curtain. Some light still comes in.
I’ve seen the day of your awakening, boy, and it’s coming soon. 
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