So there are all of the things I take away from this city, of course, but the main point, the main impression, the giant enclitic to existence that gets stuck in my craw is the melancholy, both the reflected humours from inside me and the bits of bone and teeth that I pick from the walls as I walk through this life, the sour sweat of disturbed minds, the miasma of schizophrenia, the dank and dark fog of hopes touched with outstretched, arthritic fingers - only to be pulled out of reach by invisible puppet strings. So it's the same thing over and over again, just impressions collected from my point of view, which is naturally situated six feet from the ground on a pivoting turret, ammunition behind the eyes. For that to change I would have to sit as I traveled through the valley (which is what I do, sometimes) or fly, or be carried on someone's back - and that would only raise my vantage point a few inches. So...what? A rickshaw? I've been in the cars of rich friends, it doesn't help me - I feel like opening the doors at intersections and collapsing out the right side like melting wax, to mouth the asphalt and commune with the insects, crawling one mile further and then sleeping in the dust. Perhaps I should just carry my cross through town one of these days, and let the metaphor become real. I'll cast it into Town Lake like an anchor and be rid of it, but of course...not really.
But Austin has been bearing down hard lately. It's been trying to break me. It has been gathering itself, pulling back like a distressed matron in the dead of night, folding and smoothing its potent forces, aligning its charms along its most seductive angles, raising and primping its hackled flesh, ground with gravel, and turning its eyes slowly towards me. It has taken notice of me, I'm afraid - and I don't really know why. Is it because I am noticing it, finally, and summoning it directly by name, casting it out of myself before me so that I can stab at it? Is it because I formed that plan of trying to capture it (or at least my reflections of it) from various angles, and then mouthed that plan to someone else? Was that too presumptuous? Should I have never breathed of this? I honestly thought I was too small for it to ever notice my existence, if "noticing" meant rolling over and crushing me. But right now...it's only sending its emissaries after me, and I have to sidestep them, no matter how angelic their eyes are. Remember, conscience: it's all a game. They can't steal your soul because you don't have one.
So I think of a leviathan spear cracking down black and bane-ridden from the Heavens, piercing wine valleys and mesquite-crowned precipices, sinking six miles deep in the fertile soil and overturning every life that clusters like hive-minded honeycombers through the gray walls of this metropolis, penetrating dreams like the dank, unwished-for rising of cursed R'lyeh, waking me (to be sure), but sending the rest to a final sleep. How beautiful it would be to wander without interruptions from others' desires. I just want to wither, left alone. I want to carry that mark of the world-weary...because I can wear it like armor...U. Amtey
16 January 2004
NP: SubArachnoid Space - Almost Invisible