Bio

Call me Dorothea [it's one of my many names]. I have been kicked out of every high school I have ever attended... sometimes voluntarily [getmethefuckawayfromthosepreps], sometimes absurdly unfairly. Somehow made it into college, & incidentally attended Cambridge last summer. My IQ is in the genius range, but what the fuck is an IQ but a westernized capitalist system of quantification, standardization, & denigration of human perception, each of which holds a microcosmic universe unto itself. I got dem ol' kosmic blues again, mama, when it comes to playing slide, or blues harp, or piano; music infests my bones; & someday, you'll see my name in lights. Music calls to me... and it follows that one reckless, buckwild, rock star summer in my youth I took 50 hits of LSD [& tripped & blacked out for months on end, motherfucker; come to consciousness with no memory of where you were or for hong long or why, fight club style]. Have been diagnosed a beautifully large amount of disorders, including the oh-so famous & glamourous bipolar disorder among others. & Of course, it's all fucking bullshit -- just another one of those dumbass American trends. Stabilization is not my calling... Instability is a forte, but not a well-recognised or appreciated one... I narrowly lived through my turbulent, risen-hell, fucked up childhood. However, I am related to the Reverend Horton Heat, which could damn near compensate for the apocalypse. Ran away from home; plan on becoming an expatriate, already have been a few times. Wanderluster. I am self-destructive, self-constructive, self-loathing, self-righteous, repetitive, cynical, idealistic, repetitive, misanthropic, self-conscious, self-unconscious, agnostic, pantheistic, hypocritical, contradictory, disparate, dissociative, restless, tumultuous, brilliant [what?], absurd, & fucking ... just a girl. Too many people in too many places, I'm schismed.

man vs. god

There was no let there be light. There was just a timeless hour when vaporous abstraction, void of sentience or word or reason, deviated into something slightly more conducive to the inception of human experience. And light, the derivation of all life forms, the burning energy that doubled back upon itself into consciousness & brainwaves, the fulcrum of ferocious pink-ribbon sunsets... light, of course, remains so highly regarded among us, as our existence is contingent upon it. So the almighty Deus Ex Machina of the universe must have blessed such relevant glory with his most famous words.

...If anything, there was only a feeble human parody of Deus that cries "let there be streetlight!"

All praying to that mighty Deus Ex Machina to spare us of the human drama yet.

Never in the throes of a human’s soul was there suffering if not alone. No sorrow without the solitary confines of a single human body. There is no other inside.

Sometimes I wonder if my godlessness means I am alone; I wonder if it is my suffering. Or if it is a belief [read: defense mechanism] that really does assuage cosmic disappointment.

How can I trust in an omnipresent but invisible, uncannily humanoid but eternal/vast/unfathomable, loving but alone GOD, ULTIMATE, THE ONE?

Yet how can I subsist without it?

Man versus God: is our existence contingent upon god, or god contingent upon us?

...Nothing left but to nurse my ripped ego with lonely promises of time-ripened knowledge, incessant learning...

The farthest I ever get on the infinite path of enlightenment is a delicate awareness of something perpetually on the horizon [forever dawning, forever dusk]. The farthest I ever get on the infinite path of enlightenment is a string of trembling hopes of attainment that only shatter when I become aware of them and futility washes over; endless stunted epiphanies and consequent unrevelation. And the horizon travels wherever I go; my perception never escapes to something more, to the light.

...Starving for god-ness because of my loneliness, destroying my god-ness because of my loneliness, knowing I will never know...

Retreat to the blinding light; retreat to the blinding dark.

There's no way out. There's no reason to fight it.

Yet we all do, anyway.

Music sweet music

Blues pourin over you like a heat wave--a heat wave in the deep south, one of those shimmering and sweltering waves that intoxicates your mind with a groan.

Body
That slide dragging lazily back and forth and back across the fretboard as fluid and natural as the blood coursing through your veins.
Heartbeat: a stomp, stomp, stomp on the slouchin old wood porch.
Music infested bones.

Mind
Lyrics chilling and haunting and full of bravado and triumph, truth and lore...
A flourish of the finger executed perfectly after years of time-wearied concentration.

Soul
That wailing, unholy beauty. The painful drive. Singin always singin [whether there are feathers and angels in your voice, or a dirty barrel full of gravel spilling and grinding into the ground].

Yes, that is the blues.

The Story of a Million Faces

I've surrendered.

I've surrendered the to fact that I won't surrender; that no matter how futile, how inane & abysmal it gets, that no matter of fucking foolish & delusional & absurd... I can't surrender. I'll fucking love you.

It is fucking absurd. It's the most ruthlessly laughable tragicomedy you'll ever hear of. Heartbreak.
I applaud you, Almighty, that was a truly magnificent one. Really beautifully executed. Touching, really. Did you see how skillfully the dramatic irony was employed? She really believed him! She really did! She thought love would last forever!

Obdurate, blind, tragic.

I haven't been able to eat a full meal in days.

I'm alone.

& yet, I know I'm not alone. I know I'm no different; as insignificant as every other motherfucker out there who fell prey to those goddamned inescapable human tendencies, to the inevitable & doomed human drama, to [yes, yes, you guessed it] L-O-V-E. Blessed with the natural capacity for it.
This is insanity, my god.
My pain is the human story that has unfolded over&over&over for millennia, told & untold, remembered & lost, the story of a million faces. Beaten weary by the hand of time.
& it still reaches fresh, unfathomable depths, it still is the biggest. thing. in. the. world.

& it is incommunicable.


Is it denial if you know you're wrong? Wrong & defected & hopeless?
Is it denial if you can say "I'm in denial"?


& it will hang over me, the irrational hope. The years will go by, & I will live in triumphant dreams, find respite in the false oblivion, breathe the slaphappy delusions, until I will breathe no more.

Dropped from the Zenith like a falling star

Depravity, the Great Equalizer

I was calling it an ineffable sadness, but I heard that it was called "poetic despair."
...Depressive slump works, too.
They descend erratically, the spells, like a staggering drunk, completely unstable and untrustworthy. And completely sickening. If his fix is alcohol, mine apparently is dauntless, zealous, unmitigated self-sabotage. Makes your head swoon and reel. [But it's more fun to participate in the pain than to let it slap you around!]

And then it lifts, remarkably, miraculously, and unreasonably. And I am painfully aware that I am at the mercy of the same cosmic force that governs every single other member of humanity, alike. No different.

"Pain is worn so beautifully on other people."
Oh, if only we were all other people. Then wouldn't we be such glamourouslittlebabydolls.

Poetic despair. It must have been said about other people. I think mine has something to do with my misanthropy. My disgust at Valentine's day, at weapons of mass destruction, at Christians oozing with self-righteousness, and above all else, at this sexual, alcoholic, drug-binging, hedonistic nihilism that neither class, nor location, nor time does escape.

Depravity, The Great Equalizer.

Headlong to Doom

This is a country/western song I've been writing in the style of Johnny Cash:

Headlong to Doom

Verse One:
Red, white, & blue scars across your face:
The crest of a hero in love with power's embrace,
Oh, sinnin' saint.
So patriotic, young, & full of fight
For any god & country, destroy & delight,
No end in sight. So blind, no end in sight.

Verse Two:
Seein' stars, & stripes of bloody wounds.
No man is victorious when gunshots make you swoon
Headlong to doom.
Oh, once a soldier also was a groom;
He fell, never grew older, cried "Son I never knew,
Still in her womb... forgive me, son, in her womb."

*Dobro Solo*

Verse Three:
I roam down the highway on dirt the colour of rust.
The air shimmers before me. A mirage that I mistrust
Forms in the dust.
I see myself a shining stallion,
No scars, so naive. I sought medallions,
but no war is won--I know--no war is won.

Refrain:
Headlong to doom.
Headlong to doom.
Headlong, headlong to doom...

megalomania is sexy

[addressed to a nameless no one}

I said, “I feel invincible. Do you?” You said yeah.
...And I faltered.
Absolute megalomania looked good on you.
Usually the joy is impenetrable, dangerously slaphappy and naïve, and completely erroneous. But such is the paradox of everything I encounter—as soon as I assert its definiteness, a jolt of knowing opposition erupts. Destined to falter.
Troubling, really.

I suppose it’s just some youthful high—and it’s strong as fuck, cause it’s lasted for twenty-two years and still going strong. Giddy with life, in denial about unconcerned with unwilling to process death. Rationally, yes, of course I’m going to die. I’ve been told. But basically, aside from those morbidly obsessed poets and cancer patients and the odd wise-beyond-your-years prodigy, youth are invincible against not feeling invincible.
Ergo, delusional fools. But resilient-ass motherfuckers.

And then it crumbled, for a moment. I don’t think for me. I think it was for you. I could feel all the precious vulnerability of your naked pride, your triumphant delusion; your mortality in stark contrast to your words of might. My throat burned [threatening the onslaught of tears], vice grip in my chest, uncontrollable buckling of my knees. You will dissipate, disappear, descend to the dark of the cosmos. And I feel that, so much more than for myself; after all, when I'm dead and gone, I won't be there to miss me. That, and I love you more than myself.
And then the slaphappy, lovesick, ever-persistent euphoria took hold... ever faithful, on cue.
[Destined to falter.]

Throughout my turbulent, risen-hell, fucked up childhood, I was invincible. Against repeated, methodical, almost mechanical near death experiences; in fact, furthered by triumph over these experiences. I retreated into the mind, with the profound and awesome for my comfort. Death-defiance because the cosmos were on my side. Then daydream and wonder made way for sex drive, though pain still lingered.

And sex drive doesn’t just ignore, it literally attempts to counter death. Someone will live if I don’t—and they’ll be like me dammit[!] and someone I love even more than me[!] And it governs everything, from your soul mate to ads on TV [pin-up girls?] to the way you curl your toes. But yeah, yeah, yeah we’ve all heard that, well-familiar now… if not at least by experience.

But then even that goes away. Whether the attraction stops for you or in you. And then you’re left facing an old demon from the back of your mind, only friend, alone.  A sad knowledge that you've always had, but somehow only just now realized.
And I guess then you stop feeling invincible?
I don’t want to shake it off, but I don’t like being so profoundly wrong. Or so aware that I'm not really aware.

There's no reason to fight it.
Megalomania keeps you sane.

Morcifer

*on the nature of God's ability to give life, take life, cause angels to fall to hell, etc, while still being good (a lost, often unrecognized balance)

Morcifer, my dancing black angel, whose laughter was the chimes of armageddon,
unfolding and rocking and plunging, dense redness in my mind.
Darker than evil, darker than love, a lost balance,
his was the youthful rejoicing and relishing in the pain,
the destruction, the ruins, the perishing,
the arcane.
His own call was his song, his instrument of peace, and his throng,
but "Can't you see?" he said, "I'm not that strong..."
And he stamped his feet to the ancient tune and rhythm of throbbing hearts of lovers
and rumbling earthquakes and the beating of golden angelic armies,
and the firmament began to collapse itself.
Out of love, joyful love,
he could do anything and all,
wreak destruction and renewal to realms beyond,
cause the angels of eden to fall
[into hell, out of love],
make a soul perish with clean-stained hands, breathe life into a cold white gravestone.
Anything; to save love itself.
Mortality was the chariot of Morcifer, my dancing black angel.
His soul is young yet.
Howling of the primordial chaos of the supreme,
of love, of delight, and the human being, he cried
"Thou art never alone!" and unleashed his mortal perils, retribution and absolution,
reaping and wreaking mortality.
"And I am the ruiner, the destructor, and the perisher and I love. So join the above."
But they never knew, never knew, thought his love was hate; so he woefully sang,
"And perdition... will be my life!"
He had another Angel of Armageddon, Messifer, and they screamed
"That we love is our holy light, and our holy dark yet!" And as he rocked suspended in the air,
his laughter [the colour of the aurora],
echoed and their memories
billowing in the wind
faded fast, and their words only rang at last,
where bodies blended with stardust and grass:
"Oh, how I love you..."

"Before you accuse me, take a look at yourself"

reductio ad absurdum

...love is but a flicker in an old man's eye.