I. This dark haired, plump-lipped, demon of a young girl has me enrapt. What is it in that facial structure anyway? I’ve seen that before, there are rare ‘blonde’ Mongol women, that’s what this face reminds me of. They have the freckles too. She reminds me of an ancient priestess/harlot in the city of Ur, revered, powerful, fuck probably deadly too. Darkly beautiful is this type of woman in the night alleys of a bustling city; nascent civilization seeping from every corner, humanity is still in its ‘terrible twos’ phase, wide eyed and wonderful, innocent and yet terrible in its wants and demands. She smells of sweet holy oils and sweat, wearing very little to show the sheen of her tattooed skin, glittering jewelry clinking as she glides through the streets to the temple, she is both respected and feared for her quite obvious sexual gifts and cunning, a true, born priestess. These were the days before demons and angels, when power was simply recognized as power and the sides had not yet been drawn. And she was a demon, no doubt. In rooms clogged with the smoke of potent incenses and magickal plant drugs she fucked like a demon, but only in the throes of the act itself, afterwards she turned into the green eyed angel, cooing and soothing and cradling the men, with her hellish love she drew every impurity out of them, taking it into herself. Poison for poison. When it was done she completed the healing by becoming angelic, all of it pure and intended, none of it forced, a true professional and a true religious representative. Men became like clay after that, in this place there was no doubt which of the sexes was the stronger.
So here she is today, right there in the modern world. Possessed of the same spirit of that forgotten city, no longer a dark skinned and tattooed form but still a witch goddess. Strange how the lens of modern times has changed the image and the personality, she’s young now, playing as a pale and innocent maiden, a little bit of Alice in her archetypal blue and white dress. Yet she’s the same as ever, still the hint of that power, still the dark features present in her face. Time may change her, but some things even time cannot change.
Every time I see her coated in that brilliant, sanguine hue it drives me over the edge, fumbling into some kind of fucked and far-out region of my imagination, past the point of obsessed because this person is not real. This is a creation, this belongs to me. No one can take this away from me, and this is how it always ends up. This is mine.
Maybe it’s just a sad reminder of the person I could have been, or all the girls I was never with and know I’ll never be with. Trapping them here in my mind with me where I am already trapped, but no not quite the same at all because this one is a little more special and precious than the rest. Few things in life strike me right at the heart like a special woman. That may be the case though, at the center of the killer lies the heart of a romantic lost and twisted, or perverted, ‘deconstructed’ as it were by our (post?) modern fuck all merry go round psychic television death carnival we live in. Just a sad reminder, and an inspiration at the same time. How far gone is that? I must be more fucked than I thought, but it’s so hard to get outside there and see myself for what I really am. But no, I have this feeling we’re all like this a little bit, that somehow all the normals out there are worse off than anyone else, that they’ve got a partition built in there somehow keeping them out of contact with the shadow seeping semen and shit hole people keep trying to pass off as our soul. This partition, this whole way of life you can see it everywhere, manifest in modern society as if slipped in there in another dimension unconsciously, subtly out of reach at all times but like a monster under the bed of the whole world writhing and screeching like the sounds of steel plates grating each other with space station sized reverb. Threatening to rip the fabric of things right apart, mothers wailing in the streets, all gas stations fucked and banks on fire. Small groups of people running full speed through the streets wearing all black clothes – fully covered even in the American heat - hoods on and wearing gas masks. CEOs throwing themselves out of skyscrapers and committing murder/suicides with their families because they know what’s going to happen to them when that great abortion underlying everything steps in from its new playground outside and into their once modern and efficient household.
And fuck, will I still be sitting inside writing possessed by a muse, scribbling in charcoal created by the burnt remains of plastic nothings I’ve had in my home – now food for the fire constantly burning in the main room, all windows broken and the fridge fucked – scribbling on scraps of cardboard and wood, along with drawings and hopefully (I can still hope, I’m no monster) paintings I produce in an anti-fury, late, late, later night hypnagogic , possibly drug enhanced trance? Hell, I almost wish I could say that was me that sounds kind of fun. The whole goddamned idea sounds kind of fun. Instead I sit inside almost all of the time refusing responsibilities, aspiring to greatness, failing myself, and probably human kind too by not – at the very least – informing everyone that their greatest fears and repressions and revenges are aggregating just beneath their feet and are going to rip through this whole weeping mess with typhoon strength turning people into who they really are. No horror story, no amount of special effects make-up and fake blood is ever going to capture that one, no sir. I could at least inform everyone, yeah. Instead I am content to write a love letter to a beautiful half-Mongol little changeling girl-demon that I caught fairy-like in a bottle in Hell’s Elysian fields. Everyone else is caught unaware, not knowing that true war will reach right at their doorstep.
