Madness Insipid
By MercyRain
Life in these winter birch woods. I suppose there should be a quiet serene
quality about it, but instead a sublime sadness, a decadence, even an
underlying maliciousness in the landscape. The snow-covered ground --
no longer pristine white -- is a dirty conglomerate of blanket and mud,
a re-frozen slush. And the trees... the trees -- these parched white
trees bare of any leafy overhang -- look more like skeletal hands reaching
from the ground to claw at the sky than any quiet nature recluse.
An atmosphere of 'I don't belong here -- I should not be here' clings to
me like a funeral shroud or death caul. Like a street poet in the Hamptons,
this is a place not meant for my feet to trod, not meant to be spoiled
by even a very human presence. Antagonist of the wild? Are these only
dark thoughts echoing in my already distressed mind, or is this seed of
malcontent very real, an underlying promise that 'something is gonna happen
-- status quo is doomed'?
The pendulum swings,
a slow clockword descending. Like Edgar Allen Poe, I'm strapped to the
altar and time is passing me by, each second encroaching like a million
years, each second an eternity too soon. Time is passing and I am getting
colder. Colder. The pendulum swings. Heavy rope taut, taut, taut.
These seeds of lethargy....
The ancient Rom,
basking in the shadow of the strigoi, gives his thanks to God for teh
joys he's seen thus far. The word 'God' stumbles off his lips like foreign
slang, a concept he really cares nothing for, but finding peace in life
all the same, just can't express what he doesn't know he means. God looks
down and spits, "Gadje." The Rom burns in Hell.
A flurry of madcaps in the House of Reason...
Chains of a carnal knowledge are burrowing their way into this empty
cranium. A haunting, a fleecing, things that are not meant to be known.
A doctor of parapsychology called in on a case of classic cult killings,
but a strange artifact of impossible geometry has taken everything classic
away. Could it be? Could it be? Lovecraftian lore taken for granted
for so long, nothing but silly rubbish, childish ethos imitated by clueless
savants, but now a gleaming of something more.... Was Lovecraft truly
dreamforging across the dimensions, writing tales of horror that are meant,
as his characters' intent, to forewarn? Is the sheer force of belief
enough to shatter the paradigm of reality and bring fiction to life?
This is too horrific to ponder...
Josebelle
in Hell. "I'm getting smaller!"
Glimpses of
other days, her lying next to me, snoring sweetly -- lost in some pleasantries
of dreams -- lost in my arms? I love watching her move -- wild and carefree
-- she is the flame -- now lying dormant searing through some astral battlescapes
inside (outside) her mind.
Stagnation -- apathy
-- entropy -- this world is a paradox -- a fallacy come crashing down
and I want out of the maelstrom before the last piece hits. Oh, dear,
gaia -- come and rescue me.
Inexplicable desires
-- strange dreamwroughts -- scapes limiting the horizon rather than the
other way around. Insipid.
ACT I:
The thick voluptuous and velvet curtains are drawn back. The stage
is dark -- a quick furtive shadow in the background as, presumably, a
dressed-in-black stagehand tarries a moment too long before fleeing the
set. Faint outlines in the dark -- indistinguishable barriers or walls
of some sort, a canopy bed, desk and chair, and an easel and stool. A
figure dressed in white is sitting at the desk, hunched over as if asleep.
From the pit and broadcast through the hall, an electronic genius akin
to Moby or George Martin at his synths and computers emits the sounds
of morning: birds, chirping, crickets, and music -- a light ambiance:
strings supplying a slow and yawning bass, and a piccolo at first also
slow and stretching, somber tones but slowly rising to a livelihood equal
to and surpassing that of the birds. As the piccolo's inherent energy
increases, backlights of dawn ease into the scene, the breaking of morning.
A garden of tears like some inexplicable
pointillist plot -- a sacred jungle of lost sorrows -- condemnations of
a long past and forgotten age. In this persuasion is a strange perversion
of Do.
Catching time in the quietness,
a calamity of solitude befalling. Darkness in the chamber, darkness 'round
the altar pierced solely by a solitary pillar waxwork, it's flame dancing
seductively to some primordial beat just outside the realms of perception.
A fog of mist enshrouding the corners of the darkness and milking its
way out, a haunting etherealness evoking visions of the Sumemrlands.
"You're really going, aren't you" Tanja asks.
"You can't go..." She rubs her hip like a Siamese twin rubbing where
they were once attached. Annan is a day less than a year younger than
her sister, but it all still feels the same.
ACT I:
The artist is standing before his easel, painting between
the lines. A dancer is pirouetting throughout the flat. It is this the
artist is painting, pastel and... between the lines.
"It's all in your mind. Did you really expect to find escape
in death?"
It's not real. It's not real.
"Ah, but neither
are you."
Sit back... relax... Flame
to the cigarette -- puff, puff.
previously
published as the first half of the story 'Madness Insipid' at "Megaera"
Awards
Comments on "Madness Insipid"
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A former member wrote:
You capture the winter scene in the beginning in so few words but so vividly. I always wondered what was missing from description of snow fall, and then I read this.
Every description of snow fall I've ever read was generic, a big featureless blanket of white, and yet, somehow you managed to bring all my childhood memories rushing back, namely the massive disappoint when I would discover winter never bore enough snow for an igloo in my area, and everything would quickly devolve into a barren, muddy cesspit.
There is one word to describe your post: Excellent.
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On Tuesday, July 20, 2004, Anth
(1126) wrote:
another surreal mindscape,that holds much meaning, and a strange essence,that you have realised and captured, with style, so impressive,compelling,and a joy to read, another favourite
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A former member wrote:
very surreal, the visions danced before my eyes as i read on. a talent that comes to you naturally
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On Wednesday, April 9, 2003, apophenia
(39) wrote:
i ... printed this out ... pondering it in shades of grey impatience ... as always ...
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On Wednesday, April 9, 2003, apophenia
(39) wrote:
i had the urge to red mark my thoughts on yours ... split subjective and objective discursions between solid printed words and my shaky bubble script ... it doesn't matter though that these things were done, i suppose ...
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On Wednesday, April 9, 2003, apophenia
(39) wrote:
there is a point where they do not matter within this work ... the surrealist notion ("this is not a pipe" HA! magritte) of quietitude and nervous peace takes over
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On Wednesday, April 9, 2003, apophenia
(39) wrote:
and i hear your lips moving to the rhythm of thoughts that can neither be justified or undone ...
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On Wednesday, April 9, 2003, apophenia
(39) wrote:
in dreams in waking nausea time floating stillness
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On Thursday, March 20, 2003, cre
(410) wrote:
I really enjoyed reading this, and pondering. I shall surely spend more time reading it - very good job.