Thursday, August 16, 2018

Hurricane History

Winds whipping through my brain at hurricane force carrying thoughts about the now and the then and the ever present and the thinking in the other realities. Who I am/was/is?

Remember that time you died going off that bridge in an unexpected blizzard when the roads weren't plowed. After you died you went home and woke your partner and tried to explain, but they said you were still here and it was time for you to go to bed and for them to wake up.

There is no eye to the storm. It's a spinning whirling tour of everything mashed together. Storm chasers are running around it trying to figure it out and unlock the secrets to prevent harm. This is impossible as there will always be harm. The history hurricane is a mish-mash of thoughts and weird and harm.

Remember that time you died when you were driving barefoot without a seatbelt and got hit by a semi-truck. Later, at the hospital they when you tried to explain, they asked if they could set your broken are with a pillow and the Twin Evils said yes because it saved them money, and now, when you ghost lifts weights you can feel the break in the dead arm that doesn't really exist.

Suddenly, it's all the moments when you cease to be and you don't recall why you are not ceasing to be. The storm is an open door to ever dimension and suddenly there is an awareness of everyone. I look through that door and I see all the me's. It reminds me of all the mes. Innana would understand. Ereshkigal, not so much. Enki is still pissed about it though.

Remember that time you died stepping off the corner, not looking both ways and the car honked so loudly just before the impact and you had less than a moment to really think about it. And then later, as you sat in a bar consoling yourself in chatter you felt bad for the driver and the damage to their car?

Swimming through the soup of memory mind and thinking all the thinking and all the times when it went straight off the rails. I remember wondering in awe, as I watch the winds spin, how very fortunate I am now. Am I now. Who is now.

This is now.


Remember that you died when you gave a stranger the key to your room and their only interest was in your slaughter. It started as a love fest and ended in your entrails strung from the lights and a cryptic teasing message painted in your blood. The police, entirely confounded in the morning, trying to find the hints of the crime somewhere when you insisted, but the body was gone and there was nothing to investigate, and the ghost of you was being ever unhelpful in generating a lead.

It's a rapid flow spinning up now.

You died in the water, don't you remember? When you believed you were a mermaid who could stay underwater forever. So vivid, walking into that patch of foggy water in a river in a holler on a hot summer morning when the chill from the overnight was still melting away. You swam out but you never swam back in.

You died that time you took taxi and watched as he road about time hell bent on making every light and because you were in another country you didn't care about seat-belts, even though they might have saved you. When you corpse arrived no one would listen to the story of your death, your resurrection, your you.

You died that night you walked the lost stranger to his hotel, boredom, curiosity, amusement. You do things for strange reasons and really only contemplate them later when your ghost passes through the veil and you wonder exactly how you managed to get yourself raped and murdered in a country with almost no rap and murder, but then again, he was a GI and he was only in for a visit and who were you anyway. The staff ignores your corpse because they are well trained and then understand.

You died. You died. You died.

You died when that car hit you after you threw yourself in the street in front of it. You just forgot because you were distracted by a piano recital the next day.

You died that time you cut yourself in the kitchen, but you forgot because of the yelling and the guilt and the shame being dumped on you by El Diablo Madre.

You died slipping down that cliff when you wanted the view. They told you not to lean so far. Your ghost argued all the way back to the hotel.

You died in that brightly colored ally on that dimly lit street. The boys behind you herding you into the gang you weren't looking for and didn't pay attention too.

The winds kick up and on them spinning ghosts and as they whip faster, and faster, and faster I can see through them. These lives, those lives, their lives, my life, all whipping up a storm that is pain and pleasure and amusement and the sorrow sleep memory of continuing reality. The storm spins and takes shape and there.

There at the center.

There I stand.

Remembering that time I died.

And lived.

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