Stillborn Heartson; or how assemble an nuclear warhead for dummies.

On the couch. The couch, where I should have been from the beginning. God, don't stand up. Don't move. Just lay there - already made a fool enough of yourself. Opened eyes tired and the train ... you kept wanting to get on the train. Stumble, balance, look the fool fall on the couch. You should sleep here tonight. Sleep it off. Thank you. Thank you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Her eyes were kind and she pressed your hand; her eyes, you don't deserve.  How the bathroom floor? Nick might remember: I spend my life leaning over a toilet. It's ok, we all do. No. Yes, one way or another we all do; it's ok. Nick might remember. "Doubtful!"

"I blame James Joyce for this!" as he stumbles out of the room, wrapped in a cotton shawl. The good Bishop O'ryan in a mystic habit, water eyed and leaning like melted wax - what time? Six in the afternoon - "it's five o'clock somewhere." Bless me father for I have sinned. "Did the girls leave?"

Yes.

"Are you drunk too?"

Yes.

"What happened - you were ok when I was on the floor?"

"We talked -" her eyes. Phone it in, girl i was madly madly in love, blood, wrists, I just got out of the psych ward, and a face I can't, love no, no. No. My cigarette wouldn't light. "I told her my story and needed another shot. or two. I don't remember."

"Are you in love with her?"

Her who? Her? No. her?
"Maybe."

"Did you tell her that?"

Question's too complex. Just answer, he doesn't know ... "When she came in I was sleeping ..."

"That's good. That's probably good - though I don't know." In vino veritas, of sorts. "I blame James Joyce. There's no telling what reading him can do to a man."

"Or woman ..."

"They were fine." Fine, they were indeed. But not fine ... we all do. One shot, gone. My hand, she pressed it; came back. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Her eyes were kind.

"It's my fault. You wanted to go to the soccer game. I asked the question."

"?"

"The question. You remember (doubtful!) ... you were on the floor and shouted "he asked it, the question!""

Where do we go from here?

"Yeah ..." He said forward - always forward. Proabably doesn't remember that. Oo. Stomach lurch; don't shift that way.

"So ... ?" He moves forward, glides across the floor lead by his head, a balloon in the breeze. Steady, unsteady, he won't fall, though. Towards the kitchen. Can't.

"Well. I say we watch Willow, no use wasting a good drunk on productive conversation." Willow? "Fantasy movie George Lucas did after Star Wars, starring Val Kilmer and like five-hundred midgets."

Chuckles overmuch. I need a fantasy. "Sounds good." Lean and roll. Not too much though, belly boil and settle. I am an ocean - Protean bag of gags, two for ten impress your friends. Her hand pressed my hand. Are you in love with her?  Maybe; Not fair: he doesn't know. Did you tell her? I was asleep. Good. I was asleep - but her eyes were kind. And she pressed my hand. I was asleep; I'm sorry. 

Quick the light dances then shine and he vanishes behind a wall and the sound of dishes clang. Song of bells, sing through the night a shifting star; harmony and sound forward - can't identify. Not yet night - five o'clock somewhere: Are you in love with her?

Then a voice from the kitchen: "Can you eat?"

Doubtful. Maybe.

Milestones in Fantasy Dialogue

- Vines! Hold her!
- You cannot stop my sleep powers.
- I'll not be buggered by you, rogue!
- ... more like Plantasy, if you get my meaning.
- By all the gods and demons, I swear that you will regret the day you handled the Bleeding Lance!
- Sir, the Aswarts are revolting.
- Gods, not another phallic symbol.
- Charbros, make an advance upon them with your rage! 
- I warn you not to be decieved by my frail appearance. I may look like a child, but I have the strength of eleven dragons.
Eleven dragons?
Maybe even twelve. 
Well, Twelve Dragon Boy, if you want to kill me, you will have to hit me first, and in these magic boots I am as fast as thunder.

In Regards to the Sudden Apotheosis of Abraham Weiner

Preface

The grassroots opinion is that he was seated on a pathway north of Walton in the lotus position, chanting in mantric form the theme song from the Mickey Mouse Club when it happened - and while the source of this information is dubious at best, one can see why it caught on with the masses in those frenetic months directly following his deification. It has ever been the unfortunate trend of men and women cut from a more common cloth to look for peace and transcendence in religious icons, saints, and all manner of other manifestations of spiritual personage - inventing it when they must; thus it is not out of the question that this scene (practically radiating placidity, permanence, and the American ideal) was purposefully fabricated by some well-intended individuals in an effort to bolster the popularity of the nation's newest god and rally the scattered and bewildered populace around this boddvistic and admittedly appealing banner. Theories of its origin aside though, it should be noted that few modern "Abe" scholars treat this account of his apotheosis seriously.

That, however, says little about most scholastic circles and trends of late. The current state of abeology can hardly claim to be more rooted in fact than this vulgar popular image of his deification. From the beginning of the enterprize, theological investigation into the "High Mystery of Abe" was conducted with an air of cautious mysticism rather than serious scholarship. The much lauded (and practically apocryphal) Bowden texts (hereafter BO1 and BO2, respectively) and their infamous coffee narrative have been decried again and again by the Former-Friends of our divine brother. For the ignorant or the uninitiated, the story goes that he was leading a political philosophers group at a local coffee house in a discussion on pluralism and the global economy when a stranger (the supposed Bowden) asked the (at that point) very human Abe what he thought about the vietnam war. Abe, then, purportedly raised his right arm (an action that a deviant band of Abe worshipers - a fringe absurdist organization that goes by the enigmatic title BLT - have given almost manic significance) and stated "Well, what I think about vietnam is ..." only to vanish in a cloud of smoke. (BO1 4:10- 37)

These romanticized and dynamic stories go far to paint a picture of the way that the various strata of 1st generation Abians perceived and explained the bazaar story of his exaltation, but practically ignore the historic significance of the person of Abe. They have their roots in a few mythologized texts that have unfortunately found a wide-eyed and willing audience in our current culture. Orthodox Abian doctrine, however, has always shied away from such unfounded theological sources, exiling them beyond the pale of legitimate worship and study. Abian Apologists have long defended his divine persona (obscured in the folklore and magnified beyond recognition in some of the Mystery sects) and thus his apotheosis has been proved time and again a fertile battle ground for abeological debate.

I hardly need to reiterate what the youngest children raised in our orthodox tradition could tell you; but nevertheless I will in response to this heretical and faithless age, whining about this or that aspect of doctrine "like a bunch of emo kids." (BN 8:8) On the day of March 4th, 2008 (BN 1:7) he was seated at a computer in the local library (ML 4:3, BN 1:36) when he received an email from a professor in regards to a paper that he was to have written that day. (CHRY 3:1-12) He wrote a hurried response, asking for more time in words both  polite and measured: "You know I have the highest respect for both you and the subject matter, but ..." (CHRY 4:6a) He then navigated over to facebook to compose a simple message of affirmation to a friend, "dude, you're a deush bag." (BN 1:40) At which point he is said to have muttered the phrase "God, I'm hungry." (ML 7:4) and then "stood up, stretched and yawned, and then evaporated like a bit of bacon grease off of a hot skillet roasting over a cosy mountain fire." (ML 8:9)

Surely any opinion or narrative to the contrary of this theologically established and confirmed orthodox image of our young deity is not only ignorant and steeped in fallacy, but indifferent to the very nature of beauty and goodness itself, that having no other form than Abe, the historical and transcendent He.

Currently Reading Pale Fire By Vladimir Nabokov see related

From the corner of the library Allistair MacLean's The Satan Bug is shooting me a rude look and won't stop staring. Tim Sebastian's SPY SHADOW slinks between some unidentifiable book by Anne Rice and one called (ironically enough, considering the parallel lacerations on my left arm) Touch Not the Cat. The Winter of our Discontent rolls its eyes reprovingly at the The Courtship of Princess Leia and empties its pipe with a quick blow and spit. A Clockwork Orange is knocking things over. Slaughterhouse Five punctuates the din with explosions of raucous, madhatter laughter as out of the corner of my eye I catch a quick wink from Jack Williamson's Manseed.

I can never get anything done in here.