HollywierdlandPlacemeatEnding

The Death of Love.. Vol. 1, ch.1/ Prologue
Hollywierd Placemeat Ending..


Feb. 14th, the day that love died.

Never thought I'd be a smoker, but the love you gave me was nicotine stains to my parchment mind. I couldn't live without you, much less food, water, nicotine and alcohol.

You coursed through my acrid veins chasing me with your stagnant reigns impersonating acidic strains as I drifted from one nether world, nether region, to yet another... trying to make up my mind, trying to find if I was just blind, to find out what I couldn't find- the world I would never leave behind, and all of my childhood whines.

I knocked on your bedroom window late that inevitable moonless night. I was the protagonist in some schoolboy haze teevee rerun show. You were that inimitable one, the evasive one... You were Avarathesca, the cat goddess of the night, the purloiner of all plight, and all of my personal might.

The rain was bleating down on my face, causing all out rivulets to form from the lines drawn by my drenched hair clinging steadfast to my schoolboy face. I was standing under that lone lamppost, the lamplighter standing vigilantly ready to awaken the darkening city from slumber, from potential darkness, and with it- the potential evil that lurked behind the shadows. I was one of those, I was one evil lying, lurking, but sometimes, just sometimes I would jut forth for some ungodly but true reason.

You were that reason.

So close, yet so far. I saw you after that 48 hours, my second day in B--. I saw you in your littel French maids outfit leaving the hotel. I knew you were different, 'cuz you wore fishnets. Now I'm getting blatheringly drunk.

Were you the first? I can't remember. I remember so many, so fewe... so far apart. I remember so little sometimes that I wish I had lead a more eventful existence. But, when I think back to that summer when I had a chance to get into the pants of the great, grand, groovy chick- Avarathesca, man- and lost out... I am not sad. I found love, lust, lost it all, thought I fought to get it back and won (thought...) but then, in the bright and shiny land of Laralay, I found out otherwise.

Resting my drunken body against your soft, warm, and sequestered frame was more rapture than lying under the northern lights, playing tag with the moon and listening to the occasional one- liner from the wind (the punchline gets kinda boring- rain!).

But, there I am still- standing outside of your window, pelting pebbles to get your attention, pissed to the gills, and ready to pass out/ piss my pants/ puke/ forget what I was doing in the first place and walk away befuddled... I was not like you, you were my dark star in the night sky. Black hair, gothic smile, snow white skin with devils food black lipstick... I found my wild horses come to rest with you.

There was that fateful day I went away. Told you I'd call. Did I- or did someone else? Did we maintain a friendship over the years, or did we allow other people to do it for us? Or, perhaps we just remained civil long enough to get over certain hurdles with, as opposed to alone... with, as opposed to without. Within, as opposed to with- out. Were we part of something special, or were we just relying on a past that was too long gone to even remember why? Too ambiguous to be worthy of a single sigh.

Feb. 14th, the day that love died within this boyish chagrin, within this frame of ambivalent sin. The cold seeping into my bones as I boarded the hound to T.O.… that gastronimical city of opulence I hated so much. I have raped that city of all it's opulence, only- neither it nor I are truly aware of the loss/ gain for the exact date of the event still has yet to be defined in my own pre- historical debates.

The wind more than caressed my frame as I jumped into the taxi, headed to hound central, man. A few small steps from the 'Tiltin' Hilton.' A few minds breadths away from so much more, so much that was still to happen in the coming years, months, days- I was oblivious!

I was romantik... usually the romantic, this time- I was a little more contrite than convoluted, and thus- more easily understood (the romantic being the most loathsome of individuals, for he (or she, for that matter) has difficulty committing to one person, one monogamous mogul of an individual- be it male or female, and pending individual predilection- of course. But, this is not to say that said individual of definite loathsome qualities is without value, for said individual generally will, as case may be, fall head over heels in lust with a certain individual of their personal predilection. In event this should happen, said individual of such loathsome characteristics may find one thing that more than simply represents the object of their desire in a manner virtually (not virulently) penultimately. Such an instance, one such romantic saw a flower, a rose to be specific, and found that this most beautiful of flowers was nothing in comparison to his (or her) one true love (or lust) and so, he (or she) picked this one flower and gave it to the object of his (or her) desire. There was, off in the wings to this tragicomedy, one known as the romanticist- this one person saw the emotion and passion laid bare, held within the romantic as he (or she) picked the one flower and offered it to the individual of their obsession. This romanticist thought to him (or her) self 'Hm... perchance, I might better my social standing were I to try this one act?' And, thus- the entire Valentines day and floral industry was born. The romantic, caused or fueled by emotion, the romanticist caused or fueled by greed, desire, and copy- catting their way around the world. The romantik... on the other hand is none less than the tired romantic. Not any less creative, emotional, or desire driven, just a bit weary of always losing out to the romanticist. As yet another aside: the romantic usually fails to the romanticist... for the pure of heart are, generally, the self- loathing in the world and feel they are not fully worthy of the most penultimate of desires, no matter how valid they may truly be).

I used else's day for my arrival in your own home town. I met your mom, I met your Da, and I met your friends- probably all famous artists by now. I remember 'the christmas present' (acrylic on board, B. S-----, (c)1987, measurements: huge) and the messages on that machine as I lay, half awake- no toque, no back bacon, just philosophical misanthropy. Just me, my paints, and my very personal impressions. Oh, and that self- portrait I left for you. And that trip to Laralay.

Thinking that we were more than friends... going to visit just friends. I'll never forget meeting MJ in LAX, sipping on bourbon in the lounge, pouring my heart out to this one so long gone, so long lost, and from so long ago. Old friends coming together in a place so disparate as to be almost alien- were we aliens to each other? Were we sequestered, or just apart? Didn't see you for days, not until I was back on the plane heading to that arid zone. Ahhh, the tiny liquor bottles look so cute lined up on my fold out tray...


I swore never to fall in love again, EVER!


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