| from 'Song storming the brain' - "Jones" |
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| Written by Matthew Wisnesky | |
| Friday, 02 November 2007 | |
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for you.The Wizard and lady are gone. The dungeon has been rearranged. He is surrounded by mirrors, and wishes that there were no lights on. His body has been stretched. He has lost a lot of fat. He is a foot taller, now fix-foot-ten, and all his clothes are ripped. Finally, he doesn’t have to steady himself any longer – the waves of extreme nausea have subsided for now – and he begins to walk around the dungeon. The Wizard never allowed him to explore the vast chambers. He has been sentenced up until now to remain within the circle every time he comes. He always wakes up groggy and with no knowledge of what took place over the seventeen hours he was down there. It’s always seventeen hours later when he gets back into the world –it’s always the same time on his watch, burn marks on all Chakras (that are completely gone just in time for them to be renewed at the next ‘appointment’). There is a feeling of resolution in the air however, and he begins to wonder whether there will be any more episodes down here. That alone is the only thing that makes him feel any better. Hanging from the ceiling in front of him is a small white business card that reads: Xantrax Corporation in black bold. Underneath that, is a small phrase: ‘At the end of any ritual, something new has begins to grow.’ And that was what this was, wasn’t it? This ritual had ended. Was he to take this card? Is this “Xantrax” offering their help perhaps? Do they have the answers to his questions? It was then, in a blinding moment of clarity that he realised he had been manipulated and abused in almost every new, conventional and creative manner. In a bout of desperate and twisted mommies-boy insanity he suddenly wished that it were HE who had played Bridget: the battered young wife in his last film – a film that could possibly have flopped had Bridget not been ready to suck dick off camera and bounce around topless on camera. The immortal actor – who’s real name was Jones but he hid it from everyone. He was named Jones in the late-ish 1800’s by his grandma. You see, his mother died in labour, and his father had tripped over in the quintessential dust of the West – landing -I should add- on a bed of nails that a Freak Show had left behind a month or so earlier. His father wasn’t good at moving things out of harm’s way, he was a drunk. The room loved to contort – something he had always remembered at the beginning and end of the ritual - he thought it was just his wrecked nerves that allowed him to easily write it off as a product of his slowly manifested delusions (slow in manifestation only due to his apparent inability to die - His body had begun to find certain things very difficult once he was past about 24 years old – this was proven to him after a series of large accidents (that would have maimed and in most cases killed any mortal) failed to have any lasting impression on his body.
so
he guessed anyhow) but, it actually seemed to be a constantly
contorting room. He was finally at peace enough to register that each
time he arose back into reality, the world up above had always been
completely still, his vision normal again. Jones
took the card off the large but thin fish hook that had run it through.
He wondered whether he should take the fishhook and fishing line that
it was previously knotted too, but forgot - perhaps because it would be
for the last time - and made his way towards the ladder that would lead
him from the undulating chamber. He couldn’t wait to go back to his
apartment. The
problem with his apartment was that it was covered in leEEEEchy girls
and boys when he got there. It all came flooding back quickly...Commence FLASHBACK of party:
flashback denied.
He sat down on a miraculously free chair and pulled off his yellow and orange Jester suit. In a pair of satin boxer shorts, he sat and surveyed the state of his house. The everyday odor of puke lurked disturbingly throughout his lounge like that of some Imp-ghost-pedophile, feverishly stroking beautiful lean bodies… He jumps from his seat with a start and the terror in its report slams intrusively back in his ears while he trips over a half naked sleeping girl. His face collides with an over-turned wine glass and cracks reluctantly. His face continues to crash into a well abused carpet – his cheek mashes into a bed of glass shards and red wine not yet dry. A few people stir, but for the most part, all remains still. Jones get up and casually brushes the glass out of his flesh. There must have about fifteen or so people in his lounge at this point, and the sun is coming in through huge glass walls. A friend is awake and mumbles a few words of inquiry: ‘Hey Brad, why did you leave man? Where did you go? Got any coke?’ ‘To the why, dunno – to the where, ch-chamber, to the coke, yes,’ Jones said motioning to his bedroom down the hallway. Hours later when Jones has finished making fuck to the young mexican woman who cleaned his house, he remembers what shot him out of his chair. it was a voice. there were lips in his mind in his vision in the dream in his– extreme close up. black and white. lips moved and reverb-voice goes : ‘yes, this must be my lair, he has the ability to attract the children of the night, the lair reeks of so many different human residues, Jones, teach me the vernacular…’       |
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| Last Updated ( Friday, 09 November 2007 ) |
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