Sunday, 25 October 2009

The Economy Of Time (2nd extract)

For a few years of my life I thought I had found balance, calm, spiritual peace. It was actually death. I was rotting inside my skin, and I had mistaken the cavernous echoing of my hollow soul for a new age dolphin song of spiritual enlightenment. But I had repressed so much that I turned inside out.

Lucy was my liberation, and my salvation, and it took her only two days to repeal the harrowing guilt and crippling fear that had dictated my consciousness. She tore me off my cross and let me dance within her flesh, and with such a display of truth and purity she threw light and revelation upon the conflicts and curiosities of my being. I don’t know that she was ever aware that I had been born only at that moment, and that my passions had graduated from their cocoon, with wings of silk and silver, but she would never again feature in my life, except when her cruel and ethereal beauty returned as an apparition in my memories.

I owe a great debt to her, but she disappeared before I could repay her. Until she awoke me I was in constant hibernation. Life was happening around me, but I did not participate. Afterwards, the bright conflagration she had ignited behind my eyes allowed me to confront the darkness, to run towards it and bathe it in illumination. When Lucy left I felt no sadness, no regret, or no mourning, for I had never fallen in love with her. Instead I felt a great sense of kinship, camaraderie even. We were both looking for something, both turning over stones to find completion. We united in the journey, and we advised and counselled each other, but we were just two people exploring together, ultimately destined to go our separate ways.

Convention divides us into separate selves, our professional self, our casual self, our spiritual self, our sensual self and the component parts are not to be mixed, except for the odd leak, the rare osmosis of one part into the next. But experiencing freedom and liberty made me feel singular, and essential, as though every thing I did was but an expression of my soul, not an act perpetrated by an element of me which surfaced as and when required, and must be suppressed when inappropriate.

When I am at the piano I am at the lips of a woman, and when I paint the brush caresses a female canvas, and when I write I am tattooing her flesh with my words. The street goes both ways. When I am with a woman, I am writing her character, exploring her depth, and imploring her to melodies, posing her as a grand sculpture of wonderful femininity to express the beauty of her form. All of our perception of this earthly state enters through our senses, and so we can choose to exist as mere assimilators of information, deducing and theorising, or we can become one with the wave of sensation, lapping against the shores of euphoria, grabbing at the sand, tasting it, and rolling back into oblivion until we can gather enough momentum to return.

- This is another extract from the novella I'm working on. A lot of the writer's I love have a very sparse style, and use words very sparingly, but when I write I find that I have a natural clumsiness, and the words tumble out as I they spring to mind. I think it stems from my lack of trust in words, and language. I am always conscious that somebody might read something differently than it was intended, and that once you throw your ideas out there they may get themselves into trouble. I liken it to the feeling mothers have when their children "fly the nest". I am trying to learn to let go, but it takes time...

©2009 Daniel J. Fiasco

Thursday, 8 October 2009

Press Your Laughter Up Against Mine

When you couldn’t pout your lips because of involuntary laughter,
I was not offended by the denial of a kiss,
I was satisfied by the carnal expression of your joy.

- A short poem about laughter. I don't write a lot of humour, and so people often find me very grave, but I love laughter. I have a friend who is a comedienne, and I adore her absolute dedication to making people laugh.

©2009 Daniel J. Fiasco

Tuesday, 6 October 2009

The Economy Of Time

I loved her in an instant. There was no tangible reason why. She had only the most distant hint of beauty, and she had a desperate clumsiness. She wanted only to flirt, not to reveal anything of herself. Who needs a personality? Who needs these emotional asteroids floating amidst the planets of our most brutal and instinctive designs? I had no time for subjective fields like culture or wit, or kindness, or cruelty. They are all pre-determined, unchanging and mathematical.

The reasons we love people make us all whores. The purest taste of love is that which is unfounded, unjustifiable, enigmatic. A feeling that we want to collide in union and forget, time and consciousness are no longer relevant. The kind of absolute ecstasy of willing yourself to death amidst the most rapturous of heartfire, pumping through your veins like a hot liqueur and reminding you that every moment outside of this beautiful state of being is an incarceration , a numb and vacuous hell in comparison.

Once you have tasted that you can never fill in a tax return, or check that all the transactions on your bank statement are correct. You can never plan what colour to paint your kitchen, and you will never again be able to read the morning news, because somewhere, amidst the vast vault of memories you hold, is a cancerous and deranged recollection of what it felt like to bathe amidst that glorious zenith of higher being. She will exist behind your eyes and she will writhe out her poisonous dance between you and the world, insulating you from peace. Every second that vagrantly flicks by will inflict a wound upon your soul, it will waltz you back in time to when you were King, and torment your descent back down to peasantry.

I wondered how other people functioned? Was this happening to them? How can you go to work, or even have breakfast?

- Extract from a story/novella I'm working on about hypersensitivity towards life. This little passage manages to stand on it's own, so I thought I'd post it. I'm sorry I haven't updated for so long, but time has been short. I aim to be a little more consistent in posting from here on in.

©2009 Copyright Daniel J. Fiasco