Attributes Of Animals - Chapter Five -
I've eaten some strange animals and listened to some strange folk. Though what stands out to me the most isn't that it's a sheep's penis that out of all the varieties of meats is the piece which is the most comfortable to digest and it isn't some folks bad psychosis, or their delusions of god, or even the chronological order of a time line created only to finally pinpoint how you went wrong. In order to place blame or remove parts of the present in hope for a better life. Perhaps a common face in the present is an old face of the past that's holding you back from something you need to change and it's now in the present that it's become more wise to discard the reminder than to continue the connection. I know it's not the meanest way to put it, so I suppose some faces do look ugly and not just when you're alone and people are strange, it's not just when you're a stranger- It reminds me of what the The Doors say- and I agree. Some folks minds seem wicked. So what stands out to me the most is that it's not right staying untrue to yourself. It's phony and I find it hurts. Well it does me when people pretend too much. You have to say what you mean. People are changing all the time, changing from this to that. Growing out of things once chosen for themselves and then progressing into brand new interests you've never found stimulating before. Maybe we're all fated, or maybe it's free will. I dont know. Though if a face from now is a face from then and your chronological life scan picks up no trace of life, then you're a fool if you can't see the woods for the trees. I focus on providing a common framework for integrating and deciphering language and subliminal codes that make up the phony's hidden agendas and cruel intentions. I will no longer be the object of ridicule set up as a sitting duck or the scapegoat for their cause and ambitious schemes. This conspiracy of my assassination organised for their game of treachery and deceit shall be foiled and my purpose here will be re-claimed. We're all good Christians and temptation hasn't the strength nor power to compete with my willing. I shall be victorious in my siege upon the shores of my intelligence and these embankments of truth. This environment will become a product of me and not the other way around.
Then all of a sudden with a slap, as if out of nowhere earthly, an oddity I cant make sense of. Something out there in a hidden void where nothing happens and is a singularity of nothingness between worlds something has celled, from an empty obsidian space where it's cold and dense and while absent of intellect and reason still manages to harness knowledge and information because someone, somewhere begins ringing my phone. It stops and then it rings again and I'm blind. Whoever it is has made a fine decision of withholding their number and Atlantis rises from her abyss. She brings with her the tides that cut the skies and dispatches tsunamis that crack the coasts. Sending earthquakes through volcanoes and Dante's fireballs fracture architecture. With the tempestuous winds ripping through the environment my shivers bring the fear as hammers obliterate the world around me in broken chips of pleasant imagery of the construction work of a dreamer. My vision of victory and purpose crushed under the weight of stress and swapped up with an askew view between my truths and illusions and all because my phone keeps ringing. This time it's not what Criss would refer to as 'Gooses stubborn ignorance'. This time it is what it is and it's intense. Not an intense shudder of excitement or an intense thrill of adventure from this roller coaster ride of death I'm on. It's an intense heat of emotional waves submerging the remnants of any rationality I have in me. That and an intense feeling of humiliation. Then I hear them laughing. They heckle and point and they laugh. But I'm not there. I'm picturing myself in a travelling circus. I'm Spalding's clown emerging from a wagon back stage and entering through a sliding curtain. I drift along being introduced by the tunes of Circus Polka, combined together with the cheers and laughter from two thousand voices in a din composition of sound as the crowds roar with their zealous and animalistic excitement. There's two fire breathers, bare chested and wearing Thai fisherman trousers at each end of the main ring where they're crouched and shooting streams of flames above me. The fierce wind howls then stops dead and with it almost unnoticeably the tumultuous laughter transpires into shrieks and wails then their faces freeze, statuesque and silent like an exhibition of wax figurines. A fifteen foot anaconda and it's handler is to the left of the seats. The body of Octavia, only half dressed in her risqué, leopard-skin attire. The snake's calm and still and coiled around her petite female shoulders. The slither sisters. The areas brightened in a romantic dim of light as the fire breathers perform their acts of hell-fire. I step with intention, like a mad man possessed and obliged to sit and rot in schemes, as I walk in front the path of the charmer and her reptilian friend. I'm moving in colour and silent swagger past vintage paintings and engravings. My snot green hair flowing as I pass a display of Victorian cosmoramas' showing their scenes of distant and exotic lands. Mounted on wheels, facing the crowd is a nasty and controversial image of a man with no arms who is delicately portrayed giving birth, in a surrealist impression of hell, it's set up to the right of the lower tiers and shadily secured inside of it's twenty five foot frame. With stagecraft I pass arrogantly, conducted in an air of malice as I approach the circus' centre ring where I'm between the fire breathers and I turn towards the large crowds. Rows of people, six tiers high and the lights are spotting me. The main attraction. My posture's straight and I'm screamer marching, accompanied now only by the trio of 'Entrance Of The Gladiators' as I step closer approaching the audience. The trumpets thunder and blaze under the seventy foot tent of canvas and wood. My big nose pulsing as it transforms into a blood red bubble, sheen and flowing. The drama increases as the of the speed of the music and it's chromatic scale decreases into a darker, dissonant carnival-of-souls minor key. Amongst the cacophony of noise I stare out towards the crowd through dead black eyes that seem to sink and disappear into my head where there's black and atramentous eye-shadow streaming down my chalk-white face. Stood there now with my fists on my hips and knock-kneed, smiling out with an evil grin revealing razor sharp fangs as I rise slowly and bend backwards. Out stretching my arms wide as I look up at the apex of the two hundred foot big top.
'Muahahaha.' I cackle as the music turns creepier again, in it's fluid discordance, solemn and transfixing with an almost nostalgic hold over the crowd. Their frozen, wind-changed expressions stiff and resembling beastly features and I see their eyes moving distraughtly from inside their busts of paralysis and motionless vessels. All side by side and some what identical, sharing the same critical glare with a look of concern that's despairing and scared. Their utter bewilderment comes as a sense of finality and in those few minutes the unspoken and un-chosen desperation for renewal and movement is becoming more and more crucial. I'm there, a subversion of a traditional character. The playful trope rendered disturbing and demented, my mouth enlarged to a ghoulish bigness with ruby red lips and sadistic laughter,
'Muahahaha, mwagahahah, bwrahahaha, bwrahahaha.' I crow wickedly, looking up at the top of the centre mast and following back down the edge of the wooden quarter pole. A twenty foot beam, a new addition and inserted between the side walls and the centre pole is shaking and it falls. The canvas, dampened and stretched from weather and age falls inwards and covers the top tier of people. They remain concrete as I laugh and fire shoots into the air. It propels fifteen feet and vanishes, the noise still blaring and more fire fires past me and fades. Outside the wind returns with screaming passion, high soprano and raging. The wind crashes against trailers and wagons still with their open sides and cages are picked up and dropped back to earth where they bust open on impact and release wild animals into freedom of action and instinct. The band wagon horses stampede the ring, crazy and afraid and lose from their masters. The fire breathers' exhale and they blow another thick stream of flames towards the audience and the fire catches the canvas and ignites the material. The fiery canvas falls and lands on more of the crowd. The fire breather on the left raises his torch and blows his plume of Natham into the air as the wind changes direction and catches his trousers. He panics and becomes frantic, running into the path of a pale standard bred trying to flee the ring. The anacondas muscles twitch from the welcome heat and gently tightens it's coil snapping Octavia's neck and shattering the charmers spinal cord. The sliver sisters, a fatal attraction. The paintings melt and the second fire breathers dragons breath soars and back fires into his lungs internally combusting, and he hits the deck in a heap of smoke and molten flesh. The tunes blare and the wind roars as movement returns to the people, there's no laughter from the crowds, instead they wail like banshee, then screaming and panicking. Their returned energy, saved and charged and on top of that, it's mixed with fright and make them jump and move and flee. They run for cover as the burning sheets of canvas caves in on top of the them, with various large sizes of flaming circus tent. With no room to move, the crowd disperse into a dramatic -save yourself- scene of horror and under a killer thick sheet of fiery material they fight and stumble and fall. The fallen crowd is now a rough sea of two thousand stranded, trapped and crawling over each other, burning and swimming across smoking cadavers of both the young and old. Then the burnt-out centre post separates and collapses, bringing down the entire circus on top of it's goers and somehow, the music lives and joins the wind and it becomes deafening.
Later in a perfect storm that's started from the ground up, the circus fragments move and scatter themselves, then the ashes blur and their nature changes. It rises like mist, a dust cloud of cataract vision like a shimmer of heat and the pieces transform. It morphs together and swoops through the windy air with speed and precision and lands as a silhouette and then a shadow stands. It's vertical shape becomes lighter and glows an amber and almost fire orange and then fades. It glimmers again, this time it's an autumn red before merging to purple and turquoise and burning into an aquamarine green, then it's appearance becomes that of engine oil that has leaked on the surface of a road. As the psychedelic pearlescent figure curves, it bursts into magnificent abstract liquid tones, then vivid and strong and from a fusion, into sections of primary and secondary colours of an inescapable agent. A melted concoction rises tall and still and still, from purple boots to snot green hair and all the fun in between, as laughter returns from a ghostly audience. For I am the clown. Talons for fingers and your nightmares are my dwellings. In the minds of folk with beastly features there lies truth they refuse to speak. Taciturn and dangerous, a powerful resilience is reticence. I cant lie, I wear my heart on my sleeve and I see, I smile and I grin. I think and I know now is the time to break the cycle, as my phone rings and I answer. The panic and pain is real though the suffering is bearable and I'm unsure how long this new found endurance of communication between lines will last. Holding the phone close to my ear and hearing Criss's soft and disembodied voice on the callers end saying hello. Her words come quickly, traveling across space and connecting us through fibre optic cables transmitting a source of in coming sound and transferring her into radio waves, as I press the phones hands free button. She speaks again and this time her voice has deepened, still soft and unseen but none the less, her voice is there.
'Nothing to be afraid of.' Criss says calmly and followed up with,
'Dont hang up.'
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