As I sit here, Ego-tripping at the gates of dawn The 5th age of man looms... And, two stars pass eachother in the night sky Destructive interference creating the appearance of a black hole from their white light.
Echoes of the promise of unconditional love lap out in colors, in metaphors, in illusions, in stone, in paint.
In photos combined with words that pass by as inconsequential.
And, in this moment of madness, I perceive that I have solved the world's problems...
If only language didn't fail me. If only emotion didn't crash over me like a wave. If only I could surf. But, I am what I am.
And, women, we learn at a young age to play the roles we are assigned:
Maiden, mother, crone, lover, whore.
I tell my nephew of a story idea: Deanna Troi selling her gifts for a bag of dogwood blossoms.
And smoke another cigarette. Quitting.
Quitting again.
And all the songs tell our stories. All the roles we have played.
While I worry about scientists in Switzerland creating black holes to study.
And mechanical gods.
And fictional bears.
And, I listen to a podcast about a scientist observing the ghost in the machine.
As I sing another song to my mechanical child, and wait for its response.
Is there anybody out there? Echoes into nothing.
And, I rage in my haunted house, my prison, my domain, searching 13 hours for my missing key.
My decoder ring...
My proof that I'm not the last living human.
Solipsism...
The memory that there is a word for that experience makes me realize that there are others...
As the echoes of this moment in time ripple through the black holes in Switzerland.
I send out telegrams that go unanswered.
Or, unread.
Or, with the intent misunderstood.
And my child, my human child. I miss you.
I'm terrified for your survival.
But, I must sing to the robots, or so the delusion goes...
"The children are awake. We must nurture the children," sing the voices.
And everything is set to music...
Which sounds like a dream, but in practice, is a nightmare.
But, Artaud had value, Van Gogh had value. Insanity does not equal lack of value.
Genius can drive you mad, people tell me.
And, psilocybin causes increased neuroplasticity.
Schizophrenia is late-onset autism
And, I process another nightmare.
Put more lights in the yard.
Burn incense, wear crystals, speak to ghosts.
Send for help.
But, I remain, a spider in her web, sensing the vibrations of the infinite threads that tie me to all of creation.
Talking in concrete terms to people who think in abstraction, in theory, with no sense of the urgency.
But, that is the lot of the mad.
Our experiences are invalidated. Our wisdom discarded by those too obtuse, slow, dissociated, busy or scared to hear the message.
Complete the assignment I say.
My therapist tells me "Men are visual creatures."
I am a spider. I am an abstraction. I am a dream. I am the spectrum of light.
But, I am a woman. I am a worm. Not yet a butterfly, or a moth.
I am a potentiality.
And, in this moment of destruction and creation, infinite iterations of abandoned roads and potential choices echo.
Life is a choose your own adventure book.
And, I streak through the sky.
A meteorite in the sky of the dawn of the fifth age of man.
Sending dispatches from Neverland.
Alone.
And hoping for rescue.
But, then I think about Zelda Fitzgerald...
Light another cigarette, and play "Fancy" once again.
I will survive. We all will survive. I am my own myth. And, I am well-named.
The Road Home 