DOORS AND MONSTERS



In Lewis Caroll’s  Jabberwocky, her creates a great monster/

“ The Jabberwocky, to lend an air of nonsense, but with that nonsense comes fear. We are afraid of things we cannot sense.”

“What makes Carroll’s description masterful is how much he leaves out. That way, the reader makes up most of the image, and it’s always more horrid and terrifying that way.”

It’s been said, anxiety and fear steam from two main sources , what we don’t understand and what we can’t control.

In sum, confusion, delusion and vulnerability .

These are often mercurial and nebulous  , shape shifters who in away know what you are not; in other words, they live in the void, our unknowns, our ultimate enemy death.

They are  doors.

 Doors, that is tricky and hard to find. AS if we live in a sort of Winchester house , a mansion  of countless , crazy doors, with demons and ghost are native two.

What if we muster the courage , find the right combination to our souls and flip on the light switch and take possession of this mansion ?

What if it’s as simple a key that dangles from your neck?

What’s so incredibly obvious  and yet so illusive ?

What if it is really you, your dark-side haunting you?

Machiavellian Wet Dream

In essence, this can be boiled down to a contemporary family of Machiavelli the philosopher of power and all it’s lovely trimmings.

The lovely house of Borgia notably Cesare Borgia the Sociopathic killer. A cross between the main character in Scarface and Sonny in the God father. The Borgia where an Italian family like the family in the Godfather on steroids . When they ween’t murdering other people, they were murdering each other.

So when I say a Machiavellian Wet Dream, we are talking about such a families or opportunities that people like Machiavelli drool over and even have wet dreams thinking of !

Fred :

Well Tad, the Cardashians are not quite a Machiavellian Wet Dream yet, but at the rate they are going, they are going to get their.

Tad:

I wonder if they watch the Sopranos .

Fred :

Dude, aren’t they from New Jersey?

Tad:

oh, yeAH!

Fred :

I wonder if your sister has already invited  Cesare over to meet your dad?

Tad:

I don't think so, but I know she's working on it!

Konrad

11.2.11

6am

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Mr Toastmaster

I’ve been hopping from one TOAST MASTER club to another. 

TOASTMASTERS is a speech club where in you work on your speaking skills.

In both meetings there have been about 15 people . Some of these people are really good. One guys has been going for 20 years.

Anyway, I got called .... Holly shit !

I was nervous, but just went with it.

It was improv .

 I was nervous and went with my first thought. Yup, as usual , I took artistic license and drifted from the topic.

Once I opened my mouth, it was too late, fuck it , just go with it. Personally , I thought it was choppy and questionable, but my delivery was pretty good.

Well, low and behold ( I never saw it coming ) They gave me 1st prize.

The second meeting came around and it seems I have a knack for it. Pleasant surprise, and I never took this skill that serious, but know it’s kind of fun.

THE EDITOR

~ Short tells of horror

Page after page, boredom and blur as one; The pages seemed spin like a well worn rolodex below her editing eye. You could see the reflection on her small square reading glasses. In fact, that is what most people saw, not her day dreaming eyes slightly turned up into the right eyes. Her eyes were dark and asiatic . They receded enough such that her window to her soul remained hidden in plan sight, much like a haunted mansion.

She was sort of a Winchester house, The crazy old mansion of the Winchester gun maker  responsible for untold number western murders and gun fights.

Painful submission after painful submission, she was being tortured . Up late and 35 years old, still digging around in the trash at St. Matins press as an ordinary editor going through submissions.

She always needed the extra work do to her lavish spreading sprees. A glorified secretary by day,  pick a character by night;  they all lived well beyond her means.

Her blazing fast reading skills and surgeons eye always saved the day. It also kept her employed and where she was, basically no where except for night.

All the way up on the 17th flour , deserted, she liked it that way. No 20 something bimbos screwing the way up the corporate ladder. This bad grammar was enough. She wished they would all find the roof and jump. They often did, marrying the executive and then being dumped after kicking out a few pups and spreading the genes.

Scanning the text as if she had a bionic eye and yet day dreaming; basically, a paper shredder or better a dream executioner . Her paper basket was like a boxcar for manuscripts heeded to the company incinerator. Oh, the chimney belched out giant clouds of smoke like the famed Bergin Belson concentration camp.

Faraway, into the night, well ensconced into nightly fantasy inhabited by her imaginary friends, she was entertaining the thoughts of some cheesy romance novel.

Having buzz sawed through just about all books known to man, she found goofy , 1950 like novels strangely fascinating. Barbie like master pieces, Andy Whorhol wonders, faded cheep, dime store  covers, they were her fine art.  Passed down , from one feminine grimy mit to another, lip stick stains, nail polish, chocolate, and angst ridden sweat stains and even clues to a murder mystery, small blood stains.

She well knew the literary  world in which she worked and lived would see her readings as bizarre and even blasphemous.  She knew this world  not fathom the his Harlequin Romance genius she had discovered in a dusty used book store. As cheesy as it was, this house wife had a serious left, she packed a king size lusty punch . She was so real and seemed to whisper, moan and scream into her soul.  As much as she may have suppressed her fantasies in life, she let it all out in her novels.

Abigail spinning through the  manuscripts in a late nite in a trance. She came to a submission that seemed to stab her like a burning poked from hell. It seemed to reach up and put a dirty minors pick from the dead  through her heart.

“Sicko!”

She adjusted glasses and came to attention like a blood hound finding the sent of a run away murderer.

Her intuitive  sirens screaming red. It was as if someone poured a bucket of cold water on her.

She just knew. 

This was a killer writing her. It was too real, it was a death threat with her name on it, it was surreal and she seemed invaded her like some pervert on the street. The walls closed in on her. After 15 years, this building became very haunted. She broke out in a sweat and was reaching for 911. Shaking, she had enough, and silently it was time to go, really go, shivering from her own July city humidity , she mistakenly reached for her winter coat. She had a victims panicky jitters. She was literarily in the authors hand, book open and under it’s spell.  It would be along cold subway ride home. Her imagination made her her a yunky that could not resist a good horror. She would read it on her way home. She tucked the manuscript in to her bag and away she went.

Like a beat down judas nun, the walls of her convent were assembled, book by book, since she was seven. Having climbed Calvary and into Cornell, it wasn’t supposed to be like this, whimpering and moaning.  She felt like a forsaken old madden that really needed to be saved . Her fantasy life was becoming too real and she knew it like a heroin addict with all sorts of strange, city corner strange ticks.

TO FORGIVE

FORGIVE, FORGIVENESS, SECOND CHANCES
OTHER SITE

Between Lisbon and Seville there are beautiful , serene pastures that are so still they seem haunted.


Giant black bulls and Silver oaks with in exotic forests unique.


There are stops along the way, Manors, with in orchard often citric, oranges or lemons. There are also olive trees and grapes . It's a strange , seemingly dry mixture, quirky like spanish foods and culture. Not quite Mediterranean, but Spanish, everything is Spanish. A melancholy, poetic, peculiarity , in other a haunted feel, a sense of lost spirits. 


The Castle are strange and seemingly so deserted , anything but romantic or even noble. Strangely, like over sized awkward doll houses full of costumes that don't seem to fit. Implements, that have all the accouterments but strangely seem with out life.


It is so strange, maybe it is me, but Spain is so subtly self effacing , yet Edger Allen Poe like mysterious and deeply romantic like dark red wine.

PICASSO'S DON QUOTE DRAWINGS

http://bit.ly/nVtOnu

Who else to capture Don Quote's craziness ?

Who else turned art in to madness, so we think.

I believe Picasso was to art what Einstein was to science and what Freud was to the understanding of the human mind.

Like a little spanish wrestler ( like Atlas with an attitude ) he picked the entire world of western art above his head, turned it, and piled drove it into our collective canvas. While he reigned , he grasped the art world between his legs and squeezed .

Most of his art to me is unappealing. He was an arrogant little creep, but there was not only method to his madness, it was genius and in an abstract way beautiful.

These drawings, so zen like and yet so Picasso ... Truly brilliant and yet so perceived by the untrained mind as either childish or crazy; it's the zenith of artistic mastery.  It's like that masterful Jazz solo that blows you away. No props, no make up, raw and real.