The Portrait Of A Mind

Chauvinistic. Michael always found the hinting speck of my recessed ire towards men, or boys perhaps, that I try to put aside under the rug of illusion. It is not in his necessity that he pricks his molding finger into my thoughts, but out of desire for the flame that he loves to tame out of me. Like a ringmaster to a lion, Michael is lesser than the beast. Only in the will of his calibrated efforts may the ringmaster get an action from the other, coaxing it to fit his wants. In a jaded sort of game, Michael wants to see me lash out, away from my normal self of dainty geniality. I suppose it serves as a consolation for his ego. There seems to be no other matter in it, for no one else can see the point either. Disillusioned as Michael may be, I still love him dearly. Soft blue eyes, and a suave posture shown in silhouette cover up any blemishes he surely cannot hide. Days on the Caribbean, and the Mediterranean, flower ever so reminiscently, fresh with the taste of his warm pineapple kiss. See how he folds me? Not a minute ago my heart was afire with anguish, but the remnants of my emotion are all that is left after his tranquil voice so did soothe it. The night always ends peacefully, lovingly filled with grape beds and strawberries. And Michael’s spontaneous passions could never be so forcefully expressed as in those hours between one and three that the whole moon comes tumbling down within our bed sheet covers.

Somber. After having fallen idle next to my lover’s still-hot skin, I contemplated nothing, bathed in my own (and his) sweet sweat. The whisper of a dream crept softly through the windowsill and cascaded its way lazily down to the floor, much like a bucket filled with dry ice. Flashes of memory increased as the foggy finger neared, and water started to occupy my shadowy chamber. As if to say hello, the wispy vision suspended itself a few inches in front of my face, arched its neck and produced a shallow nod. The water was rising, and just as I began to float on its surface the fog recoiled and then surged in through my nose, enveloping my thoughts, my love, my passions, and all that was me and was within me.

Gloaming. Sulking, shoulders drooped, and head bowed, she was in her cave. Ice, thick like a woolen blanket ever so ironic coated the insides of the otherwise barren rock, and little light shone through save for the small crack at the hind end. Cornucopia in shape, the cave was her funnel, her slide, her sinkhole dug out of the frozen, muddy mire that surely surrounded it. And she was smiling. Not a happy sort of smile, nor a sorrowful smile, but a smile that defied categorization and surpassed even the clouds that made the stars opaque. It was an expression of doubt, of resentfulness and pity, and most certainly of turmoil. Yet, in a twisting way, it was satisfied. The smile did not want to change itself. There was no need to, as it was perfectly fine resting upon her face. But she. She was not warm or oddly blithe, and this fact was shown obviously through her sudden cries and wails towards the crevice in the cave. She thrust her figure violently back and forth, revealing that her leg was trapped underneath a fallen icicle. The tinge of blood barely escaped onto the ice below as most was frozen in a clump on her leg the instant it dribbled out. Hair was matted to her face, her head, and her soul, three points that she somehow failed to find a connection with at this dire point in time. She needed severely to die. Pray for her. Exit fog.


Temperamental. I was raging, around and around, a lion within its enclosed box. Ranting and raving, mostly due to unfortunate dreams of late, kept me up on Michael and his nagging. Oh, find this. Go do that. Sit here. Stay until I’m back. But it was now my turn, my turn to be a mosquito around his ear. I called raucously to him for my brush, my favorite dress, and any other such things that I would need for the remainder of the infant day. Annoyed with my petty requests, Michael escaped away to his study, where I loftily chased after him. It was, and has become, increasingly rare that I was able to penetrate Michael’s rough wall guarding his notions, so I naturally took every chance I received. In his game, the ringmaster is not supposed to show intimidation to the lion, but the audience all knows he feels it in his very blood. Aggravation turned quickly into aggression, and Michael balled up his fist into the most menacing club, striking my bones with such ferocity that it felt as if my skeleton were a rattling cage. Stoic, I had no tears to cry; all of my salt had passed through onto our bed the night before. I’ve learned, sometimes, that we just have to frown.

Perpetuation. Overlooking the ocean, a sea breeze drifted across my stolid face. The sea was the only shoulder I had to cry on, an everlasting basin filled anew with children’s tears from the tribulations of the day. I conjured the idea of riding a Ferris wheel submerged partially underwater. One could only hope that the breaths they took above would last them long enough to save themselves from drowning below. Every time, strengthening their lungs for the next plunge, the inevitable plunge. The current may ebb and rise to prolong the suffocation, or fall and be shallow, but the time was always spent hoping for air. The last second before the cooling touch of the water was the time for inhalation, the time to suck in the love and wonders of the world to savor for the ride into the deep. Sadly, the more I pondered this was the more I realized my breaths were too shallow. Maybe it is now that I’m realizing that I may just desire to be out of oxygen and stuck upside-down at the bottom. So much for a happy New Year.

Nocturnal. Sunk, sunk, sunk, with these thoughts, these overwhelming and intoxicating merry-go-rounds that live deep within my head. Can’t get them out, just can’t. I feel dark, and down, and rather as if a dank cascade of drunken and purple wine has flowed precariously into my skull, and is allotting itself spaces in my home, my internal home. A flash, a flash, what is this flash, false maybe? Am I getting the wrong words now? No, no, a false flash, childhood memories gone bad, and spreading to now, to Michael, or am I the childhood and Michael my father? Why, no, he is my age, my lover, and my protector. Or does he just lie so? I don’t know, I don’t know, all I need is the curtain, the show, the play, to stop, to stop, and let the voices in my head subside and fade, I am too crowded and burdened. Maybe the dark, the absence of light, has come from the realization that in the game of life, everyone fails, because at the end, no one is living. Should I stop listening to you, Meredith?

“The rose of thorns is only meant to be singular, so that when it contains two, the presence of one will have to be discarded.” Seeping and weeping, dearly child. Meredith, yes I, fragmented and vile (laughing), twisting, molding, even creating the thoughts lodged in you dearie. I am stronger, stronger, Meredith is strong, and I will permeate you dearie. I’ll whisper in your ear, because we don’t need you, we need me, I found you deep inside and rescued you from yourself. Inside, oh yes, inside your mind dearie, inside your life. You live inside, we all live inside, and no one will ever get there but me, Meredith. Confused, confused, yes your words are scrambled and mixed, mouthing great discrepancy and meaning nothing, yet nothing can seem to be all and infinite. A metaphor, dearie, that is what me sweet Meredith is to you, am I you? am I you? Well, I am you dearie, I am, and don’t you know I reside deep in all of you, in you, in you. I come from the bleakest corners, the lonely street lamp corners, and you have me found now dearie. Meredith, oh me, I live in the weak and the desperate hurting.


Videre praevius


Septem fragmentum parallelus. She is: romantic, surreal, nightmarish, subservient, depressive, confused, invaded. Seven deadly traits, seven characteristics to blame the gods for her woes. Her pain, her suffering, brought on by the bottomless depths of these septem fragmentum parallelus, prior in writing of course, all too real to exist outside of her head. Reality, naturally, does only exist in the crannies, the nooks, and images perhaps, that fall somewhere within the brain. These words, the word, the page even, may crumble, will crumble, before the end is over. Word; a folly of reality, the vice used to anchor people to the page, to the shore. If words were not in order, and had no purpose, would it be reality? Well of course it would, but subsequently there would be no real meaning. Without meaning, is there reality? Love, hate, fear; invisible, yes, and very significant, though of course not always in the correct time. But there is still meaning. And as such, those things are real, tangible, a substance dark and sticky used to thicken the vacuity of people’s lives. So that when those things that are vital are taken away, life mutely vanishes into the fog, leaving a pit of empty imagination. The lies she deeply touches are not in her fake words, but instead in everything she holds meaningful to her heart. It is thus that the greatest lies you have reside unbeknown in the ways that you feel.



Yeah, so that was pretty fucking weird. I figured when she said I’d get a load of psycho shit to read the next couple weeks, you know, for improving my writing and what not bull shit, it’d be mildly messed up. But of course, I was given the shitiest piece of empty trash I could have expected. Her writing, I mean, that’s what was so trashy. She had some crazy name, ironic to fit her schizo head. Remmy Swarvac maybe? Well anyways, she was a patient at John Yates Mental Hospital, loony place really if you ever go there, not that you would have to, or I don’t know maybe you would. And she dreamed. And slept. Well, together I mean. That’s all she did, just sit there nearly asleep and manage to write some random crap down. Then the doctors, they came in to magically decipher the magic code, coming up with some ludicrous and wondrously magical meaning to all of her jotting. You see, there is a lot of happy magic in the medical field. The doctors concluded she was apparently and hopelessly lost within her own delusions and hallucinations, a magical judgment that confined her to a room 24 hours a day with no “likely or probable recovery”, removing the need for treatment. Her husband, Michael Swarvac, had left her many years before when he could not deal with her condition. Wouldn’t blame him really, she annoyed the hell out of me with her ramblings and I’ve never even met the psycho. Her writings I mean, they were what annoyed me. Seven fucking stories about nothing, nothing except what was in her head. Which was pretty creepy nonetheless, especially given the circumstances that we all are in. With voices in our heads, my head. I’m kind of wondering what could go wrong if it turned on me. You see, the thing for me is, my only voice I have is in myself. I was a mute at birth, and have had to learn to read and write and live without the ability to give back to what I have taken from. The insults, the words, all without reply. So I write; it’s the only way to not be a leech. A leech to art, to the beauty of the world I mean. I wouldn’t think that to be fair; to see and do gorgeous things but never contribute. Plus, what else the hell would I do? I’m a proud part of the lower 1% of the population that can’t even say, “Welcome to McDonald’s”, kind of screwing me out of even that job. So anyways, I get mixed up a lot. You know, scrambled, because I talk to myself. I am the only person I can carry a true conversation with, so everything kind of floods in. And I ramble as well, kind of habit but I get a lot of interesting ideas by never turning my brain off, open the dam and let the nourishing waters run through. And back to the writings, yeah I have a friend Devin that brings me some crazy stories every weekend to read, help my writing and whatever. Did I already say that? Well, anyways yeah she’s really a sweetheart, and I usually love the stuff she brings me. I’m also kind of an agoraphobic, but only a little. Having a disability can do that to you. So on weekends all I do is read, and she provides the material sometimes is what I’m saying. I’ll probably tell you more later, when I can think more. But for now, that’s all you need anyways.

Cough, cough. And I cannot hear it. I guess you get used to it you know, the concern, the sympathy. My thought is always the same: I’m not a kid with fucking Down Syndrome. I have a brain, thank you. Well, I mean I guess those people have brains too, just kind of not fully there. Like a reflection; it’s you but not you, just an image. Down Syndrome kids have an image of a brain. I’m sure I’ll get bad karma for saying that. It’s kind of ironic really. If you say “fuck karma” then you are basically putting bad karma on yourself for saying it. Odd, really. I mean, the cycle is odd. Karma, well, it’s just plain the Bible. And as for fuck goes, I can’t say it. Ever. If people had not invented the middle finger, I would have no way to truly express the mixture of shock and insult people receive when you give them a huge “fuck you”. I would find that highly handicapping.

Damn, I need a job. Parents are dead and their money is running out. Yeah, that’s right. Parents. I had them, no not all mute kids are from Mars or wherever the fuck. And my parents, they loved me. Well, they said they loved me. Really, they hated me. I was the smudge on their badge of honor. A family tradition of lawyers and pianists and doctors and CEO’s. And I was a mute. Which by my book really is a notable accomplishment. I tell people who are amazed that it comes easy. Wow, what a bad joke. Anyways, they were rich, loaded, and they never left me wanting for anything. They say my obedience and respect of them brought on their generous monetary donations to my childhood. Honestly, I thought the fact I couldn’t yell a huge “fuck you” to their face is what they meant by respect and obedience. While all the other kids were basically pissing on their parents, I silently obeyed them with little in the way to return. See, the thing is, I hated my parents. They gave me stuff; great. But they didn’t love me. They loved my muteness, my disorder or whatever. But me, no. When someone has a condition, something wrong with them, it is so easy to love them. But the truth is, you aren’t loving them. You’re loving the fact that something is seriously fucked up with them, which in turn is basically giving them a big “fuck you” to their face. Anyways, money. It’s running out, all the money they left me. Like I said, I really don’t go out. In fact, my room is bare. There is really nothing that interesting about me. Except, one thing. I paint. Shapes and swirls, colors dancing on the canvas, a surface drenched in life and suffocated in it at the same time. The tension draped within the hallways of an old and rustic manor; this is what I paint. I paint the insides of my head, what crazy things I end up with. Here is one I did today:

(laughing, a    silent    scope    of    breath,    with          ice              crystals        melting

s  o  f    t    l    y                        o    n                      y        o        u      r                spindle of fear. She smoothly languishes the moonlight, bathed in a glorious and                          v e l v e t y blanket of tranquil water droplets.   
T    a    i      l      w    i    n      d    s          H    a    u    n    t.

Wrapped in  H    E    R  own self-pity for envious    d    e    e    d    s,    a      maiden flowering voluptuously and pouring      g    l    a      s    s    y 
  l    i      q      u    i    d
over her stomach of  s    e    e    r    i  n    g      passion, and Venus itself watching in anguish as the rose petals of    l      o      v        e

go crashing to the depths of    H    E    R    own conscious mind.)


What did you think? It was inspired by a lot of things really. Monet and Van Gogh. I like that stuff. Art, I mean. It’s really nice to hear. Or see, if it’s paintings. I used a lot of deep red and orange in that last one. Long brush strokes to bring out the color. And color, I say, is always a good thing.