Hail to the Victors

I am the deviant child that pounds in revolution and resonates through my ribcage. Jailed, oppressed, I shoved him in there, locked him in the cage of my inner being. He used to be living in the outskirts of my fingertips, annexed also in the far reaches of my toes. He’d protest and clamor, run and thump, raise chaos in places that he felt necessary. But, sadly, he was not well received. Later in life he began to retreat, pumping through my veins, nomadic and circulating, trying to find his place. Occasionally he’d take advantage of a painful opening, some popped vessel or sensitive bruise. His true colors spread through pockets, confined only by the layers of my skin. His aura, though temporary, was obvious – a statement of presence, importance, like the thumping bass of a hip-hop stereo, like a nation’s flag over conquered land. With time, the body became more cautious, took less tumbles, developed rougher skin. So he moved, in a flurry of red and white cells, towards the Mecca of all defiance. Inside the vessels and ventricles of the heart he gathered, and learned. The toenails shared stories with the palms, the ankles with the ears; stories of battles lost, families torn, beliefs shattered. And there he lay, collective and disheartened, in the holiest of heartfelt places.

School is but one institution that stood on the back of this jungle boy. Reading Vappula’s piece addressing traditional forms of education, my heart began to thump, my child began to shout. This is his story, of forced thought and rhetoric and schedules and stencils and norms and abnorms that he could not fit into. He is the brother of my voice, who retreated to the pit of my stomach and ached at every essay in which she could not take part. He’s the son of my philosophy; a father kept prim and presentable, living in each twisting strand of auburn tinted hair. He learned how to silence his piercing screams, or maybe I learned to barricade them. I fear he’s grown older, hit puberty, lost the interest in protest and gained one in sports cars. Time accelerates in lonely spaces. Maybe he’s married and settled in a section of my suburban lung. He’s forgotten the glory of my tongue, unresponsive to the bounce of my lips when inspired. He knows the walls of my inner intestine instead of the liberty that lives in my eyes. I feel him move, I miss his face, I speak for him what he used to do for me. His action, trapped in the glass casing of my words collects like marbles in a jar – step right up, you could be a winner, 500 dollars for the man who can best estimate its worth! I hope he, or she, or we, steal the fucking thing, dump it in hallways and stairwells, and together see the fury of our individualism unfold.

free write therapy

There's something essental that's missing. It feels like drinking pulpless orange juice - it's fine, in fact sometimes prefered, but you know that's not the way the juice is supposed to be. It spills down my throat, and seems to pass directly through my organs, making no effort whatsoever to spread through my body. I might as well not have lifted the cup at all. What is it. Why do i talk, ceaselessly, with no purpose or content. Where's the pulp? I'm a reflection of my surroundings, as are all living things, and subsequently they are of me. Endless and cyclical. I don't want to spiral out of control. This is the life-sized Cuisinart that renders all pulp virtually unrecognizable, although it was there to begin with.

No thoughts, just words, let flow and go. Don't think, about. punctuation, spelling, capitals, syntax. It hurts to backspace, i sense it through my eyelids, pounding in my eardrums and pulling my arms apart. My eyes are closed now, feeling only the sense of keys on fngers. I turn, and the words turn with me, and we blend together untill they pour into every orifice that i have. Open your mouth and let out an inaudible yawn. It peaks out, keeping one foot inside, holding onto my tongue. another foot - on my lips and legs shaking. It starts to run, and i to scream. The yawn to scream is a beautiful thing, more natural than the last leaf of fall. and i fall, and scream, and no one can hear. the wind is pounding. on glass. bits and pieces seep through but dissipate as they drive towards me. To feel that wind: the kind that shakes buildings, uproots great oaks, tears asphault.

There it is. Intuition. I block it out, like i talk myself out of a cold winters day. Layer upon layer i deny my need for it's presence in my life, that thing that you know with nothing but the strongest connection to everything around you. It used to drag me. Now i drag it. Chained below my ankle, i carry the feeling around. I had people in my life; strong, independent, beautiful, intuitive people, who reminded me of the importance of magic. And it pulsed through them, and me, and nothing else felt more real. And we'd scream, when screaming allowed, and we'd scream, when we were silenced, and we'd run when time seemed endless, and we'd run when it came too close. I saw in in their eyes, when they slept and when they cried, and their shreiks were both of joy and fear, swift in their escape and their celebration. It's missing, it's vital, the pulp of my morningnoonandnight. It's nearly inaccessible without you here, but i feel it every time i'm home, every time. It's the most beautiful, courageous, innovative work of art - the way you teach others to embody emotions. Backspace.