Backlog: Stream of Consciousness - Letter to Anonymous

Letter to Anonymous: Originally written as Stream of Consciousness, featured in Issue 02 - The Pink Issue of The Rebellion:

How are you doing my dear sweet pumpernickel flower? I miss watching the dew trickle down your lovely little leaves oh so sensually. Sometimes I can see those fiery legs of yours stretched out over the horizon. But then, unfortunately, the confusion sets in because what would that imply about the sun, blazing above your ever-flowing legs? There’d be a battle of epic proportions waged over who could, in effect, set the globe ablaze.

So, I suppose the warm and sumptuous meatballs have been rubbed into every inch of you body by now. I hope I am right in this assumption. I suppose you are probably swimming in mostacciollis of ladies… and gentleman perhaps. Those sexy beasts that frequent the northern regions of Italia like the soon to be extinct, Asian grasshopper. How are those carnivorous monstrosities anyways? I bet they are sinking their lovely little fangs into your neck nightly? I envision you, feeble and shaky amongst the sea of alienated clubbers, slowly feeling the beat pulsate through your entire body, until the last possible second, when your weak form just can’t take any more and you are on the edge of ecstasy. I bet there are whole floors dedicated to those beautiful babies. They run rampant through the electric-lit hallways, waiting for their prey. The feast is a sight to see though, wouldn’t you say? The air all thick and gooey, as if every molecule were on the verge of crying a luke-warm tear of condensation. Those crazy eyes among beards of Viking nights, flowing crimson through purple horizons of lashes so long they could penetrate your thoughts like a knife.

I've fallen in love with simple things. Like the letter ‘c’ for example. It really is quite lovely and robust. Almost exquisite one could say. Sometimes I wish I could lie in its welcoming crest like the little boy who sleeps in the loving embrace of the moon. But some days I frighten myself and run away from what once appeared to be a harmless orb in the sky, beckoning me with that pacman-like grin. “C”. Look at her. She is just so damn inviting. It's like a lovely little treat, waiting for you, not judging. But the simplicity scares me to death. I must retreat from technology into the woods of salvation, where only the natives and their sacrificial offerings and hallucinogenic trances can prevent eternal damnation.

Technology has turned on us. Not only has my ridiculously inept contraption of a computer turned on me, it has taken hostages. I woke up this morning sleepy-eyed and crustified with unidentifiable fluids from the night before. Hair gel, beer, and bong water tattooed to my naked body like tribal war symbols. I was quite a sight to see. The image created in your head cannot describe the likes of me in the state I was in that very morning. It was perfect timing for my computer to make its move. And this time, it decided to take into account the harrowing task I had at hand- a mountain of Spanish work to be typed up proper for my lessons. It was minutes from daybreak and I had to fight lance to staff with a very angry piece of high-tech machinery. It wasn’t happy and it was making that very clear. Virii had infected it in more than 165 crucial organs. I could see the pain in her eyes as she fought off the trojan. But in a last effort to forge ahead and be victorious, she disconnected herself from the real world, cutting off all information relating to sustenance, acquaintances and loved ones galore, dates and times of appointments and such, and most importantly- Gaelic music. I could tell she was a force not to be reckoned with. I let her be, lonely as she was, crying myself back to sleep where the only thing left was darkness.

It was that very same darkness that had infected my poor computer. She was helpless to those microscopic warriors. (I am bringing myself to tears right now just thinking about it.) It in fact, was malignant. The poor thing. We'd been together through thick and thin, good and bad, rough and... not rough. I could see her waning off...slowly but steadily. I know that even with this tremendous loss, I must carry on. I am after all, only one man. And she... is only a figment of my memory now; a memory so clouded with sadness and loss that it seems to be drifting through my skull and blowing away like smoke in the wind. The numbness has set in and it’s hard to say if I’ll be able to love again. I will store her in my mind as she stored my porno stash and my ancient scrolls written in the early hours of a freshly stricken Saturday. So ready to be called Saturday, but still only Friday. Those few minutes where time seems to stand still on the edge of disaster, ready to plummet into the depth of the new day. Dark and divided it is, when night stares day in the face with a hostile bitterness, as if challenging those little hands on the clock to make their next tick.

So I take Bruce Wayne’s ever-fitting advice and I leave the lair secretly planted in the basement of my mansion. Logistics are completely unnecessary at this point. This wouldn’t be the first time I raced against time. I realized there is no reason to stow myself away like a nocturnal bat in the heat of day, waiting for the sun to collapse on another hemisphere. I have so much living to do. The anticipation has gotten to me. The anxiety is like raw energy sizzling through my every pore. I can feel the sweat drip down the bridge of my nose as I concentrate on what to do next. So much passionate love to give. Bruce would be proud of his little Robin-like follower. I get up early enough to catch those greasy little buggers before they can even inch their way into my freshly groomed lawn. But that's simply because they're retarded. Excuse me, mentally handicapped. I can just see what would happen if I were to call them retards to their snarling mugs, they'd have me tarred and feathered. It's not politically correct. One can't take that kinda thing for granted. In fact, I have many times and have been rightly reprimanded.

Do they have such a thing there in Europe? I wouldn't think so. It's a different way of thinking. Like replacing a screw with a jellybean or something. One can't go and mess with creation like that. Mother nature and father time would go haywire. They're kinda creepy anyways. Always getting into other people's business. Close talkers they are. Space bubbles are a cultural thing, I understand that. But they like to fingerprint your quivering lips on their supple chins. Trying to be subtle and all, they don't even realize they're doing it. But you'd never question them. That'd be disrespectful and after all they do it for a reason. They were brought up that way. Like family. It’s a mafia-like relationship amongst those hermaprhoditic inchlings. The competition is so steep these days, one goes at great lengths to secure his place in the business. Thousands of bled night crawlers have been found strewn about the yard in the morning. It’s quite sad really. They live such a pathetic existence. But that’s family for you. They’d do anything for family.

How is your family anyways? Do you live with some hot ladies and gentleman? Some beautiful babies even? Are you busy as a bee with follies and trots through the grape orchards? How is your love life? The romance must be great there in the land where romance was invented. They say that one day Giuseppe was out trimming the personified hedges of the great garden, when his master’s wife invited him in for tea and crumpets. Giuseppe had never delved in the likes of these treats, nor in those of the master’s wife. Heavily drugged by some ancient tea he could not recognize, Giuseppe awoke in the arms of his lady. The passion in the room could be seen for miles and all the land was in awe of the astral display before them. It was as if the sun had stained every cloud in the sky red with lust. Every blood-red cloud appeared to be sighing with pleasure. It was a beautiful orgy in the sky. Great golden copulations. However, no cosmic wonder could do justice to what was going on inside the down and satin jungle gym that was the bedroom. Both man and woman had discovered the essence of true love. History says that when they were finished, they floated breathlessly above the heavens where they sit in those very same clouds aroused with hedonistic life.

I bet the beautiful babies of that romantic land would appreciate a freshly shorn lad like yourself. All blue-eyed and bushy-tailed at the thought of a moonlit drive. Drinking strong piña coladas and sipping on the likes of each other and such, like you only find in tropical paradises such as where you are as we speak through this primitive form of contact. That sort of thing rings my bell and tickles me pink in all the right ways that I can't even put into words the emotions that have been cast upon my fragile little form. You're probably wondering what I've been up to when not directing the stars into cosmic orchestrations. But all in good time you will hear of the horse-ridden tales of pageantry and the wars waged against crazy Irish roommates and wine-drunken mademoiselles calling out the name of Sir Lancelot like it was an all-too familiar Christmas carol. I tell you this in complete curiosity because in reality what I've been up to is of little importance.

I live here, in this lowly little city butted up against what at one time they called the 'mirage a la vie'. Whatever that means. I want to be in the rolling hills of glorious Italy. Are there such hills where you are? Or is it more of a concrete playing field of monstrous buildings and little tin-can cars and scrap metal architecture much like the big apple we know all too well? I try to paint a picture in my head of what you must be doing and I can only picture you wearing a black and white pin-striped shirt and of course a beret, riding a little bicycle down a broken brick road. It curves just slightly but it doesn’t put a stop to your confident stride. You're fully prepared to turn the wheel just enough, as if you've been down that path for years. You are sitting at little quaint diners, not like those mass-produced Starbucks-like diners you find here in the united provinces of north capitalistic America, but real authentic European diners where they don't speak English. English is such a beautiful evil is it not? A crutch from the romantics, no?

We hide from those scary beautiful babies because they own us. We're their faithful servants. We are here for them. And heaven forbid we be turned down. So we speak this plain dialect in a seemingly tormentful effort to fight conformity. But not you! No! You are in Italy! You are the king. And for that you must be happy. I try. That is all I can do 30,000 leagues away from you. I miss you my king. With that hard /k/ sound. Not a /ch/. It’s a /k/. Don't let them tell you differently. It's all you have to hold onto in a foreign land. You can't be running around without that /k/. If you let them change it, you'll regret it. Believe me. But I trust you and I know you'll do the right thing.

School must be on the agenda somewhere. It pains me too, but I assume it is only helping the twisting, turning path become a little straighter. Like the little turn in the road you were ready to take on your little Italian bike, you were ready for that little turn when you arrived. That turn that not only stopped your thoughts from churning on that warm summer's day, but also made you a man. No longer a boy, you're ready for bigger turns. I am quite jealous and hope that in due time I will be ready to travel down that rocky brick road on my rickety old bike too. I too want to wear a beret. But only if you designed it. It had better be a beret with my initials sewn into it, etched like the symbols ignited to a beautiful painting.

In closing, I pray for you and your lovely assistants. That you live la vida loca in Italy to the fullest. Every day remembering that we are here for you and thinking about you. There is no use fighting it. The love we all share will continue to grow, like a little geek's comic book collection. For that, we shall tattoo a beautiful work of art on our feeble bodies in the name of friendship. Until then...

Ciao.

More of my writings can be found at my lit profile Stream of Consciousness.

Peace and Love,
The Rebellion Magazine