Note
from the Editor:
Please see my notes at the start of episode #6. Julian's coordinates are
still unknown. As I threatened to do in my notes, here's the continuation
of Julian's letter to his ex-girlfriend Emerald.
Mark Spitz
I needed to pause and recapitulate. Why was I here? Back to the listing
in the Amnesia as I mentioned in relationship to something I was observed
executing that someone connected to the paper, or someone connected to
someone connected to the paper and who observed me, thought merited mention.
Like I said, the someone connected to the someone at the paper must also
be connected on the other end to someone or to an institution, more than
likely an institution, whose purpose is connected in some sense to what
I was observed doing; looking back now, it is to my credit that instead
of running I opted for forbearance and didn't give them a chance to think
I beat a hasty retreat. And besides it would have been foolish of me not
to assume they were watching me, and to beat a hasty retreat meant to
stage myself as dismayed, more, incurious, an inclement sketch of me they
could post at random, though I, as I mentioned previously, I do not make
it a custom to fetishize myself as an armored exemplar on posts, have
no truck with the masculine disorder.
I quickly shuffled through my repertoire
of spellbinding intonations while attempting at the same time to powder
up a smile and rouge irony into the left upper lip which I forced in the
direction of the clouds to mimick the indifferent wire of a paper clip
excused of utility and condemned to the fate of doodles, while ordering
into enticement the verbal construct 'You got yesterday's Amnesia?' She
leaned an elbow on the window and peered in while I dissolved the smile
hoping that only irony remained; however irony without the smile was like
nothingness without being; I rushed to rouge the smile back on but she
spotted me doing it and snatched it away from me before I could get to
it. I had no idea she could sing: Who needs yesterday's papers - she crooned
surprisingly Jagger-like. Her lips were, I suddenly noticed, of a full
Jagger-like cut, perfect like a skilled plastic surgeon's slash into raw
meat, her teeth splendidly burnished and even, and her amber pupils, for
one quick moment, almost made me think of the purple yours. Almost. No
other pupils can. Like I said she was Thea but she was doctored and the
chisel of the lips was Jagger's. The only alternative left me was to screech
off to the right on Brood, illegally on red, 0 to 60 in 5, and be done
with this sorceress before she scooped me up in her fishnets or massacred
me in her Amnesia bedroom battlefield; I couldn't be sure just how much
damage had already been done to my psyche, as it was clear this was a
psychic attack and that she had been my god Emerald, this 'en' wasn't
there an instant ago when I stood up to go to the bathroom! But I can't
stop now, here's the last sentence again, I couldn't be sure just how
much damage had already been done to my psyche, as it was clear this was
a psychic attack and that she had been set upon me by others; and it wasn't
farfetched to assume she had been doctored up for my sake, that she had
been spliced that way. The ballet shanks were a ruse whose magnetic force
upon me could not be denied; somewhere in the krypts of Amnesia a doctor
Frankenstein matched a ballet student and an unfortunate match girl, (that's
not what I want to say if I am to stick close to the truth, but the match
girl bit wafted in from my childhood) for a purpose whose ramifications
included excluding me and whose roots I needed to extirpate to prevent
the conclusion of my exclusion. It was then that she took my hand in hers,
her left thumb and forefinger, an exquisite set of translucent crabclaws,
picked my left forefinger from my hand dangling negligently at the end
of my left arm I left carelessly perched on the car window, all the while
her quicksand corneas sucking up my vitreous humors across the expanse
of the fifteen centimeters separating our faces. Her fingers were exquisitely
sculpted! They were just like Loony Linda's! I don't think I ever told
you, did I tell you about Loony Linda? the lude freak, Loony Linda, this
is part of the poem I wrote about her years later, I am opening up the
file with it, here it goes, and by the way I didn't include it in my book
Transgender Organ Grinder, and once at a party she was so fucking
stoned I had to drag her away but she was intransigent and tried to exit
through the refrigerator door, the guests, all New Yorkers in exile to
L.A., all contemptuous to and of the locals, all looked away and snorted,
and Linda noticed, Linda was a local, Linda had been a groupie and once
fucked Mick Jagger, maybe all the Stones, for sure all the Monkees, L.A.
woman hair style down to stilettos, the New York film crowd in exile to
L.A. was scum to her, she once sucked Frankenheimer, so she outstretched
like jesus her fingerless black satin gloves that enveloped arm to armpit
and crowed like a fanatical rooster just to unhinge them, because she
could, see, they were contemptuos of jesus as well but at the core they
were all frightened, I'm just like jesus, see, she didn't believe in jesus
either in case you're wondering about that, but she'd crow, see, I'm just
like jesus just to unhinge them. Or maybe it wasn't to unhinge them but
she was incrementally awakening to an indigo twilight resonance she had
always sought and which presently promised to erupt, unexpectedly as these
resonances naturally do, when they finally season to a level of maturity.
Linda was over six feet tall and Jagger's a little dude and her arms stretched
out into infinity, the edges nearly wounded you, the fingers were long,
the most exquisitely sculpted fingers you have ever seen, skin like velvet,
fingers so long and so chiseled you wanted to pray to them, those fingers,
which once when I got fired from a film placed a lude between my lips
and pushed it in, fingers with silver rings and long black fingernails,
fingers that brushed my hair as she held me and hummed a Tom Waits tune,
fingers that touched Mick Jagger. And fishnet's fingers were chiseled
just like Linda's, replete with black fingernail polish, as she fished
my forefinger between her thumb and forefinger and imprisoned my palm
in hers, it was warm and soothing in spite of my boiling with silent protests,
whose bubbles were fluttering about my lips like butterflies as she placed
my hand under her black leather mini and into her crotch and like a sudden
soldier tightened her grip! The fishnets were barbed wires to my skin
and while I still had time to ponder I pondered on how such entrancers,
such promoters of the path to the boudoir could be so jagged; and the
connection between Jagger and jagged didn't escape me either, perhaps
she had been spliced for my benefit, grafted like that, do not mean benefit
but downfall, those nutcracker gams to tight me in their grapnel grip
and crack me, but her crotch itself was surprisingly unprotected, there
was no jagged barbed wire fence around it, it was removed post factory
from the fishnet thighs; and the pudenda, ascondida beyond the protection
of undisciplined bush wires was soft and moist and warm; palm imprisoned
in the barbed wire of the fishnets while fingers dissolving to freedom
and ecstatic convergence! I meditated on the metaphor the dichotomy of
the placement of my hand presented as she tightened her thighs' grip:
had the light turned green now and I stepped on the accelerator I would
remain while the car would shoot forward without me and its burgundy crash
into the poles holding up the drab yellow stab of the Texxon marquee;
the Texxon marquee above which I had just spotted the brand new billboard,
whose content I forced myself to ignore; yes, there I sat and forced myself
to ignore though chided myself too because there was no way you could
say to yourself this doesn't appear before you, sat there in that particular
space which was not any other space, this time which was not any other
time, I was a prisoner of space and time, but yes forced myself to ignore
it, time after time, in full concrete knowledge I would not succeed; yes,
I would be wrenched out through the open window, my fingers dissolving
in the warmth of her ecstatic fluids while my palms hacked and sundered
by the barbed wire strands of the stockings! Seams like sabers! I wished
to shout. I would be found wrenching in bloody dolor on the concrete island
on the corner of Amnesia and Brood. And all this because of a mention
I was told about in the Amnesia Spectator; and because he who told me
couldn't recall whether it was a panegyric, or an attack, a spoof, an
honorable, or merely a passing mention, the listing of my name in relationship
to something I was observed doing that someone connected to the paper,
or someone connected to someone connected to the paper and who observed
me, thought merited mention. Certainly, the someone connected to the someone
at the paper must also be connected on the other end to someone or to
an institution, more than likely an institution, whose purpose is connected
in some sense to what I was observed performing. A breath of soft wind
caressed my burning cheeks. I had left my passenger window open, it had
been open all night long while night embossed Amnesia with its chalcedony
balm; and what if now Linda, in her fishnets, yes, Linda was fond of fishnets
too, she sometimes forced me to try on her fishnets on pain of no satisfaction,
and she had some enrapturing gifts such as a penetrating tongue, she could
for instance penetrate the core of your heart with it and dissolve any
maternal childhood trauma, the oedipal was nothing to her but conceptual
constraints and she could take you past civilization's discontents and
into divine acceptance if you abandoned yourself to her needs, shit, I
can't even fucking type, it's yourself, and now she had suddenly manifested
on the passenger side and grasped my other hand! Linda too sported ballerina
calves, Linda too once inserted my fingers with her fingers into the silky
and wiry concatenation above the kid leather edge, and it was as though
now past and present were braided to each other as one, my left arm was
in the grips of the present while my right in the grips of the past and
the future I had hoped for in the light that might turn green, the tights
I mean lights in Amnesia are very long and waywardly irregular, I don't
know if I ever mentioned this before, they seem to be controlled by brooding
rather than the reoccurring intervals we've adopted in what you've come
to define as the civilized world, so the light turning green was hope
I had suddenly become desolate of. My only future was here, a jesus in
the grips of the present and the past, this would never have happened
had I not left my right window open, I'm just like jesus see, I'm just
like jesus! With superhuman effort I wrenched myself from the tenterhooks
of an emerging temptation to regard myself as a religious dilemma. Already
the gelatinous substance which felt so lovely to my fingers was inoculating
them with absorptive fluids. Could they have already sucked the contents
of my hard-drive? And then, for what reason go so far as to post them
on the Hades billboard I was facing? "No longer fascinated by the
performances of souls delusional of the undermotion of phenomena, she
steps to a tango she alone can hear." These lines purloined directly
from my computer's hard drive!
(to
be continued)
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