MisterDoctor Greenteeth's Pointless Forest of Music and Shit: Dust (part 1)- This is not suicide. And Shame, Humility, Revenge. Skin (Swans).

My body is devouring it's memories now, eating at the flesh that stores these lost sensations. Soon even the bones will fail, falling into ordered heaps of dust. The memories, too, are becoming nothingness. Me, biking down the empty streets, hearing voices just out of range who sometimes speak my name; or some word that resembles my name in the dead roads- shun, shun, shun... And all I remember is removed from me, behind sheets of plastic, only dull pains and aches that sometimes roar too loudly to hold in. This is when I split my skin open and bleed into my bed, getting colder with each heart beat.

I don't want to tell a story here. I am out of stories, done with them. And because all the stories point in the same direction, through laughter and sorrow and dumb founded awe, I don't need to remember. To what end? To say, this is something that happened and now is gone? As for new stories of some golden future, no. They all go to the same end. So I will sit here and wait. It will come when it does, no need for sympathy or ritual to guide it in. Every action between now and when just that. Blank action unattached to anything else. Ha, ha, ha. It's not a joke, but I enjoy pretending that it's funny. Another thing to do to eliminate minutes and hours from the path. This is not a suicide note. This is time sliding over glass.

I am violently addicted to the small moments of joy. When the despair laps up again on the shore, as it always will, I shake and froth and begin to hallucinate with the pain of withdrawal. I latch on to people who radiate joy. Strangely enough they are generally sad people who have glimpsed behind the curtain but cannot live there. I suppose I am the same. Kicked out of heaven I wander the earth looking for it's shadows. I don't think this is my life for success, only survival. But again, I am addicted. I need it like milk for survival. And like any true junkie I always need more and purer joy to get my fix. I'll go without food, spend all my money in the darkest places, those with the deepest shadows trying to not look as though I'm looking. The trick is, there is no trick. You simply have to be there when it comes. What I mean to say is that you cannot actively search out the moments. They'll see you coming with your desperation and your greed from days away and skitter around the corner before you've even caught the scent of it. I have no trouble divulging these secrets. They'll do no one any good who hasn't already come upon them honestly, trudging through the depression smelling of bile and chronic masturbation. The door to the church is directly before you. But you have to know that there is a church before you can see it. Go to New Orleans. At the corner of Bourbon and Music it stands, shining and singing.

But still, it is not a story. It's a song with no melody dragging itself down the street. Another false religion trying to simplify matter and energy into moldable structures. I spit these songs out like a dog barking at ghosts. He knows they are there but he can never, to his endless shame, make you believe him. They are rain against the roof, trying to get in. No more. I am sealed and only things go out now, in the usual ways. Shit and more shit. Where is it created from, when I no longer ingest from the world? The body eats itself. Sad but true, Saturn had no children- it was himself that he devoured.

I don't feel as if I should be here, not knowing where here is, or where else I might go.

There is a loss I cannot define, slipping into old reductions, the simplest terms that lean into fallacy . Is my first mind the paranoia or the beacon? I'm trying to tie my eyes more firmly to my heart, to use my mind from a distance- the casual observer. I need to know what it is I'm seeing. The input is spotty and unreliable. When is a chair not place to sit but a thing to get up from? What blankets should be kicked off, exposing skin to the cold and light, to the rain and clearing fog? Can these riddles be fashioned into new fairy tales full of caution and reward for the brave, innovative child?

Take out the last of your comfort and woe and pass them before the flame. See how they glimmer, see the light run over and through the flaws each hides boldly in plain sight? Listen now to the words they whisper, false confidence and tender, desperate need, vying for respect. How not to be seen, but recognized, as vital and alive.

The language keeps changing, sliding through the differences in time. Fucking time, eternal enemy. The only true eternal. And yet it will die with us too. Each of us laying down, and finally giving away all of our time. And language too. Just the written flesh out in the sand, always changing it's voice but never changing it's tune. Shun, shun, shun- washing back to the sea.

With the loss of memory I cannot believe the same thing for more than a few moments at a time. It all just swirls around, down the drain and vomited up again. I have lost even the concept of trust, which frees me to walk naked without fear. The loss of a concept therefore loses it's antithesis. No trust, no fear. No anything. Just silent waiting.

~ end part one~