Cuckoo Cider and the narcissist's shadow
Yesterday the mirror cracked
and the humanoid beyond the pale did more than trot out the usual dumb show but
actually returned my stare; inversely he broke the universal contract on self
reflection in a twisted-his-head-inside-out kinda way, and even began to
converse with me.
I had seen the illusion within
the looking glass distort and darken and convolute and grow horns before but
never heard him (her/it?) make utterance prior to this time.
I had been keeping a diary
recently, and true to the foibles of my sporadic habit, I soon became confused
as to the line between diary and life, between thought and wish, between
fiction and memory. Of course I'm happy to smudge these lines; I'm no diarist
at all. I like to blurt out my proclivities and ejaculate my unsolicited
opinions for however long the fancy takes me (until I get lost, or disappear up
my arse) then I let the dust settle on my observations, even, if not most
particularly, the obtusest amongst them, and proceed to leave the scribbled
hieroglyphs dormant for a period of time; eventually, like a case of wind-fall
cider, the contents become amplified and intoxicating by virtue of my having
added a champagne cork, a sprig of sugar and an unspecified period of
abandonment in a dark and lonely place to congeal and distill their festering scratches. Upon latterly
being reexamined in the light of evanescent referral, (generally when the
cuckoo calls) the obscure references often seem to reveal that which was wrapped
in impossible-to-square-circularity at the time of first writing. Clarity
prevails because recognition blows fragments of reality into full blown myth. And
myth is truer than life.
No comments:
Post a Comment