Thursday, February 28, 2008

Pig Dog

The king of the beasts is embodied by my friend. People call him Pig-Dog. Pig-Dog has a massive appetite for everything in life. A borderline food junk and sex fiend, his social life persona resembles the least likely candidate for an executive. In the morning he rinses off the grime of a weekend’s gluttony and play, to splash on a little aqua aroma. Pig-Dog fits in a large suit that makes him look bulked up for war. His softened fat tissue is pulled tight and his broad shoulders project a massive defense. Don’t tackle. Don’t talk. Don’t touch. Don’t look this man in the eye. He will burn you and rip you apart for the good of business, but you’ll indeed lay your talents to the ground for his battering ram. Donate your glory to the bank book of Pig-Dog, for he needs a new jet ski and five star plate of ravioli. This is just the beginning of his raucus party. I guarantee there’ll be a bucket of chicken for everyone he’s ready to embrace as a friend. It’ll fatten you and slow you down, and you’ll forever fuel his herd.

Don’t alarm your mother for she is in conspiracy with Pig-Dog. Pig-Dog was a vagabond mooch until your mother kicked him to the curb and wouldn’t make him lunch anymore. The rumble in his belly gave him wings and he out ran you. Who would have thunk, you say?

Who would have thunk indeed, good luck out running him now. His pampering and sudden starvation made him strong . He burns to protect and ensure pampering by his own accord and power. This is the game we all face in poverty and prosperity. When the riches flow into our pocket we’re sluggish. When the pockets are empty, we’re too hungry to look our neighbors in the eye.

The damnation of a whole generation who trended boxer briefs, breeds this knowledge: having cake and eating it too is a toxin for a good belly. Struggle, struggle, choose one extreme or the other. The elephant ears from the carnival gave you such bad gas and delayed you from loosing your virginity in high school, Pig-Dog! Stop revisiting the lusts behind your shy, gassy acne, and run as the stud of a frog. Steal the prince’s chick and ride her hard. This is the glory of being a Pig-Dog. A beast with an un-apologetic appetite. Regarding his tiny cock, he just pops pills and pretends differently. This allows his sexuality to take momentum as a windy flurry, and wrap around the newspaper to mold its rising dance.

Then Pig-Dog asks for a large cake and it takes you out of it. Suddenly the sound of his voice makes you shudder and lose your appetite. Pig-Dog saunters and asks for something not on the menu to go with his large cake. His elephant gaze knocks the working baby to bend over backwards, and so you have to wait longer in line. You’d stab him in the back but so much blubber pads it and blunts your blade. In the end, he’d just turn around, smile, and give you a hug, further delaying the wait time in line. So you’re the fiend when it’s all said and done. He buys you a bag of cookies and you can’t stay mad at him forever. Don’t tackle a Pig-Dog if you don’t want him to lick you because that is exactly what would happen.

What I’m trying to tell you about Pig-Dog is that somehow he was born with an atmospheric intravenous flow of the fattest mocha latte with sugar buzzing crème and cinnamon twigs. His fat cells become lighter than air. Each pound of indifference is an atomic power plant to churn his ambition and magnetic reward. The only way to lock him out of his home is to aid his journey and allow him to trust you beyond friendship to the heights of an economic battery pack. If you detach, one his bright bulbs will go out. And Pig-Dog is the kind of man who wants all of the bulbs on his Christmas tree to burn bright year round and on every birthday. Have you ever embraced the most generous glutton; a benevolent carnivore, Buddhist republican? Take a good look at Pig-Dog. Cut off your head in a photograph and glue stick Pig-Dog’s photo on top of your neck. You’ll see the irony and unbalance, but it’ll make you laugh and spring your abdominal cannon loose enough so you can stand taller and make a speech. Pig-Dog is every man’s ally only by being your enemy. In the end he is most powerful because he sparks envy. You’re the clearest sinner. You could have easily listened to his flaws and broadcast the truth within your promising consciousness. But you bury your mind in the sardonic fever in that glass of water. It burns the gluttony that brews in the mucus of my belly. I plan on swallowing a nickel to dissolve the incumbent with dominion over digestion. Downing a shot of rum and doing sit ups does not tickle the real thought behind why I am sick. A terrible indigestion, a subtle pain in the head, and a general malaise pins me in the sanctuary that forgets to inspire. Let us crumble the dry cactus into a warm glass of water until I can truly taste the sweetness of decay. Not a sour decay, but a decay of new beginnings. A heavy and light mold swept away by its own multiplication that breeds a real instability for itself. Blast that rich trumpet into the caverns of nutrition, and let the people come out from the mountain. All those people hiding from the economic rule of Pig-Dog. I guarantee they’ll relax in the sunshine. No more of the deep stress of finding yourself lost amongst tunnels of rock. The clearing and expanse allows the mind to operate without anxious interruption. A damnation of intent and spicy cleansing of the gunk, shouts a man. The mountain can fall into the sea and re-collect as this sediment, burying the fish and forcing nature to reinvent biology. Just take a last real gulp and pass a stone. Pig-Dog’s kidneys throb after eating with the mountain men.

I realized my true feelings on Pig-Dog when I grew aware that he was hurt; poisoned. By seeing the emotional pain seep from him, there resonated a deep fondness for what lay beneath his physical drives. Seeing his pupil’s fade with light, I knew I was seeing beyond animal and mechanical, beyond the grip of science. I remembered when I once made fun of Pig-Dog behind his back. He overheard and I saw that his feelings were hurt. I saw then how meaningful my friendship was to him, and I tested it by pushing the boundaries. Pig-Dog is real, he’s not just an Id driven sock puppet. You just have to get to know Pig-Dog like I have.

Tuesday, February 26, 2008

{Dream Log - 2.26.08}

{Dream Log - 2.26.08}

Descending the gargantuan office building, the elevator flashed a view of the outside air, spitting sights at the same rapid rate as the descent. I had just finished kissing a young lady in my office. She was of petite nature, light brown hair the color of rich sand that seemed to fly in the sun, with the cutest bangs, and firm little breasts that pressed out against her pink button up shirt. Her legs in panty-hose wrapped around my hips as she offered me her lips. At the base of the tower I realized I had forgotten my brief case up top. The elevator went bust at this time, and as I knew important work laid waiting in that case, I charged up 75 flights of stairs, but this was fine because I had to do something with all of my adrenaline from my kiss with the lovely temp that came out of nowhere, Chantelle. I made it to 75, sweaty with a racing pulse and panting breath. I strolled into my office, and to my surprise, Chantelle was waiting for me and held out my briefcase for me to receive.
"I figured you'd come back for this," she whispered in a soft but pleasantly raspy voice. She smiled a smile that haunted me with glee.
I thanked her and wrapped my arm around her waist. I pulled her to the window and we gazed out at the city.
"The elevator is shut down because of the immense winds," I mentioned as I wiped my sweaty brow with my tie.
"Yeah, I felt some wicked sway! I was frightened."
As she said this my eyes fell into her deep brown cornea. My trance was interrupted by a rumble of thunder.
In the distance, dark clouds, massive gray stained with the blackened burn of storm, were brewing up and puffing momentum towards our tower.
"Come," I said, "I'll give you a piggy back ride down the stairs."

Monday, February 25, 2008

The Puddle of Paul's Pathological Pickle

One of the many things I enjoy doing when I'm acting in a play or film, is to journal as that character, mess around with potential subtext and stir up the sub conscious to flesh out a personalized perspective on the given circumstances of the piece. Below are a week's worth of journal entries I wrote from the perspective of "Paul" while in rehearsals for the Daniel Mac Rae play, Division & Shame. In the play, Paul experiences the bitter end of a marriage.

Day 1-

This whiskey doesn't mix as well with the apple water as it used to.
The juices of the apple always calmed the fever and the tingle and made me glad to be.
But she burns whatever lovely goosebumps erupt, tall and solid, from the fever.
The apple has lost all meaning and I want to chuck against the wall and leave it.
The grotesque fruit lump will stay there to be seen.
Viewed. View it you horror face and see that I am capable of it.
The apple has vitamins that no longer work magic on me.
I can't digest it.
The acidity; how I never came to this realization before astounds me.
I was punch drunk but now I'm piss drunk.
Whiskey I keep on pouring into my belly.
I think I have an ulcer so bad that my lower back hurts.
I'm a bad bitch in the dog house. No it ain't right. I'll pretend Jane is soft and cuddly.
Let us hope in God's name I don't upchuck the little of the apple I consumed in the dolly's face. So I can duck at least one more fury session.
Gettin' hard, that's my one goal for now.
See you all tomorrow, if I can make it out of this freezer alive. Haw haw. A love. Fuck it.

- Paul

Day 2-

I can smell her perfume on my old sweater.
She got me this sweater for Christmas two years ago.
It was never really something I'd ever pick out, but I was gleeful nonetheless upon receiving. Because I realized, I'm a family man. Getting a sweater as a gift was something pleasant, and it signified a bit of adulthood. A child on the way and realizing that its people, not the materials that bring out joy.
I can smell her perfume on my old sweater.
I am drunk with nostalgia, and throw on an old record of Elton John.
I can't stop thinking of the gorgeous times and it makes these cold times sting even more.
I'm tossing a lot of my energy into hating and too much loving churns up with it. So I can't commit to the hate, the love is too rancid to embrace.


Jane's drowning.

Jane has a place in my subconscious. She is my angel and my devil.

What are you telling me to do? Speak up.

Day 3-

GRACE: Where'd the fishy go? Is he hiding ? Where can he hide?

ME: There's no fish in there.

GRACE: What?

ME: Yeah. He died. Remember?

GRACE: You think it's no big deal and you don't have to tell your wife?

ME: I told you.

GRACE: No you didn't.

ME: Think back with that little brain of yours. I told you two days ago. I specifically told you.

GRACE: No you didn't. I would remember that.

ME: Forgive me, you must have been hopped up on Vicodin and how silly of me to expect you to be cognizant.

GRACE: What a terrible thing to say.

ME: Well, you automatically act as though I'm terrible. I'm just now acting the part you want me to play.

GRACE: Shut the fuck up. Shut the fuck up.

She knitted me into her life, into the warm fabric of her life. However, she made the awful choice to knit me using yarn. It's fucking unraveling.


Day 4-

Grace hasn't been home to cook for me. I know she's over at Tim's. Cooking him some potato salad, watered down and dosed with an overload of cayenne pepper. For dinner tonight I went to Pizza Hut express. I am shamelessly plugging their product. The great taste of a personal pan pizza, saturates my blood with a greasy narcotic like feeling. I am making an effort to not complain about Grace. When I am with friends I bite my tongue. I have the indigestion from this pepperoni pizza and may just throw up in the sink. If that's the case, I will leave it and see what she says.

I have this wallet photo of her. I drew a mustache on her face.

God I am like a 10 year old.

Dysfunctional ulcer load bearing quiver panic.

My power animal is a beaver. I work work work work on a tree. But this tree I have chosen has fallen on my face and crushed my teeth. What are the ramifications? I am unable to go to work on another tree.


Day 5-

A bundle of snot bubbles and pours slowly like a green syrup out the left tunnel of my nose.

Hallucinogenic cough syrup tripping spiral sleep patterns and baby sweat from my feet.

I wake up once in the middle of the night and feel the wet nose of my old family dog Alexander nudge my left hand. Alexander whimpers. I roll over and he licks up the sludge from my nose.

Miss me Alexander. I like that you'd miss me.


Day 6-

Our first Turkey Day together was a smash hit. We went to her brother Sam's Wisconsin cabin. It was cold but we burnt a lot of wood in the wood stove. It was just me/Grace, Sam/Jessie. Two couples. Burnt turkey but fuckin' juicy. Tasted like real cooking, like we really hunted and tossed it in a fire pit. It snowed. We drank lots of stout and wandered through woods. I made out with Grace in the snow, in the dark of a path on a wood's trail. I felt like a kid, running around and playing. She was snug in a hat and scarf and looked so innocent. A blank slate. I want to spend the rest of my life with this woman. The snow was thick and stuck.

Here's a life lesson: Snow melts.


Day 7-

Just staring at the empty television I just chuckled and wolfed down popcorn drenched in butter. My arteries danced and sang praises to the evolution of what is healthy. The absence of cold chains makes for a healthy water fall dynamic that doesn't stop and that is exactly what flowed forth from the television screen. A sprinkler of blood that trickled on my feet. No this wasn't a dark horror show, but warm and electrifying my feet into dance motion. This dream signifies the echo of heaven where my father plays and children blossom lightly, and the love of a woman is not an egg shell to be walked on and hurt by its fragility. We are not fragile in this land. We are an organic wink of liquid that has no purpose and doesn't push one. We rejoice in letting go and the soil fluffing creation of moments. I like this dream and will do whatever it takes to stop the waking slap of dawn.


Sunday, February 24, 2008

Lagoon of Serious Dementia

Along the banks on the Lagoon of Serious Dementia, Adolph Hitler had once straddled a beached whale. He shed a single tear, but the analytical shepherd charged with keeping watch on this political prisoner, could not truly deduce whether this tear was actually caused by harsh sea breezes. His read on this man in the actual moment of that potential unveiling of vulnerable emotion, was obstructed by a blinding orange red sunset that blasted apart a whithered silhouette, an etching of the spinal curve of an ex-dictator bent and thinned by a daunting prism. His own horrors cast back at him from his own synapse tap dance. Trapped and controlled by a determined psycho-science torture driven inquisition, the brute was forged into a fidgety meek. The world rendered the demon dead but powers that be held on to him and wished to hush his presence. So much information was to be probed in the laboratory from his extreme psyche, and adapted into softer form for American economics. The questions that the leaders in this treatment asked of themselves was, is there any humanity in exploitation, and if so can it be compromised into a mutual exploitation? The supposed deceased Hitler journeyed on as the oblivious instructor in a top secret examination in economic control. The study faded as clear results were never disclosed. New scientists inherited oversight and steered new directions for the confidential project. The 1970s saw the wildly nearing end of Government funds for the observations done on a remote island as hallucinogenic pharmaceuticals were applied to "deepen" the window into the political prisoner's psyche. Navy rejects continued to patrol the island to ensure the elderly Nazi never left the island, as well as the analytical shepherd, i.e. Nazi sympathizing psychiatrist. Both minds were diluted and on the verge of catatonic schizophrenia. In the murky waters of the Lagoon of Serious Dementia, Adolph Hitler for the first time looked directly into his own eyes in the liquid reflection. He forgot everything he had done, or ever wanted, and slipped into a catatonic state of walking coma for several days. In those days he sauntered mechanically, and no signs of personality or spiritual presence inhabited his movements. He hung close to the Lagoon and "tragically" drowned when he dozed off into his own reflection. The warships departed their surveillance and orbit. The analytical shepherd was deemed harmless and ditched to spend his final days tripping on magic mushrooms and spreading fingers into the sand stained by the odd odor of a blue whale carcass. A pointless excerpt in history, do not trouble yourself with inquiring its accuracy. You're best to believe this is a delusion of grandeur and laugh at the beastly illusion.

Saturday, February 23, 2008

All Hallows Feast

Winston gripped at the tree to grapple his way to the tip top of the tree so he could snag that last ripe fruit above. One last ruby red lump standing out with brilliant luminosity, tingling against the brown, arid world. Winston drooled. His dirty paws ransacked at the old bark which crumbled as dust as he slid back down the trunk, defeated. "That tree is done," he hissed. He pawed at the tree furiously until every fiber of its wood became dirt, and the base of it came crashing down. With it, the ruby red fruit that tickled his buds and sent every cell of his body screaming for nutrients. The fruit bounced into the hands of a sudden stranger. Winston glared. The stranger took off running. Winston was faster. Winston was not merciful. The stranger had already gnawed the ruby red to nothing. Winston sized up the offerings of the rugged landscape. Cannibalism was invented.

Friday, February 22, 2008

The Embarker

The Igloo Oven is my own personal playground for words. A recess for my own experimentation with language. I'm a big fan of setting pen/fingers on keyboard in motion and running the stream of consciousness wordplay. Strange scenarios, beasts, figures, and lands emerge through this bridge of dreams and literature. In many ways this blog page will be my workshop, for bouncing and charging new fiction projects through the form of : dream logging, ranting and raving, pointless diatribes, poetry, essays, parables. A lot of what I'll spew into this page will be mud, a linguistic Freudian potpourri, but I'm hoping some sort of raw, nutritious vegetable will sprout up and ferment some mind ballads and visceral tales.

A poem to start things off:

A brittle fever,
dusts the mind's
lucidity of grip.
Over the turn
of events that must
be relinquished: the
tide has got to sweep
him to his success at
the dawn of a new
development in his
thought and manner.

Don't let him fight
the fever too quickly.
Unclasp his hands and drop
his melting body in to the
riptide of experience.