Posted in Almost Dorothy, Angel

Ma: Little Black(ish) Angel

Irresponsible Forests | Photo by Neil de la Flor
Irresponsible Forests | Photo by Neil de la Flor

“Little Black Angel as years roll by I want you to fly with your wings held high I want you to live by the justice code I want you to burn down freedom’s road”

–Ladytron, “Little Black Angel

Ma says fuck it. I just lost everything she dictated to me on this dickhead typing machine, so I’m just going to paraphrase her rant against the bird justice machine: thermodynamic legacy.

For example: “The Earth gives back the same amount of energy that it receives from the Sun, but what it receives from the Sun is in a much lower entropy form, owing to the fact that the Sun’s yellow light has higher frequency than the infrared that the Earth returns” (Roger Penrose, The Road to Reality: A Compete Guide to the Laws of the Universe, 706).

In other words, angels are entropic and no exchange between two bodies is ever equal.

Ma says fuck it because she just poured her cart out and no there’s nothing left in her but mathematical equations and formulations that reveal nothing meaningful about the little black angel above her head.

For example: “Fewer photons means fewer degrees of freedom and therefore a smaller phase-space region and thus lower entropy than in the photons returned to space” (Roger Penrose, The Road to Reality: A Compete Guide to the Laws of the Universe, 706).

In other words, we were in love with the closed universe. If we examine the space between hope & despair, religion & the spirit world, fanaticism & fantasy, where most of us live and most of us will die looking for answers that do not exist & never will in the physical world, an alternate reality will emerge based on unconventional ontologies for quantum theory. In other other words: only the Bengal tiger knows the cruelest of truths we avoid–that we live, love and die in a world of photons and phase-space theories where the survival of the cunning, not the fittest mink coat, rule the world.

Ma says little black angels are really just vampire chickens in disguise. Some are cocks. Some are hens. The rest are ducks.

For example: “Plants make use of this low entropy energy in photosynthesis, thereby reducing their own entropy, and we take advantage of the plants to reduce ours, by eating them, or eating something that eats them, and by breathing the oxygen that the plants release” (Roger Penrose, The Road to Reality: A Compete Guide to the Laws of the Universe, 706).

In other words, wearing a cunning mink coat, pink bra and yellow panties, ma walks into the bedroom holding her iPhone in her left hand while pretending to read The Diary of Anais Nin, Volume 1 in her right hand. Since ma can’t read, she just makes stuff up like opera for dummies. A little black angel hovers over ma’s head as he holds the justice code in his right hand. I shadowbox ma’s blue shadow cast by the broken blue lava lamp. Anais Nin walks in almost naked. Almost stumbles into ma. She says stuff about ma using ma’s voice and her hairy body.

Ma says her bra is too tight for this but she let’s me have it. The Nine Inch Nails play on the radio.

For example: “I divined her life at that moment, she only believed in intimacy and proximity, in confessions born in the darkness of a bedroom, in quarrels born of alcohol, in communions born of exhausting walks through the city. She only believed in those words which came from the confessions and criminals after long exposure to hunger, to intense lights, to cross-questioning, to violent tearing away of masks” (Anais Nin).

In other words, ma is a peanut, a deadly allergy to herself, a biological organism who believes in the intimate proximity of confessions revealed with the violent wiping away of mascara, in a black leather mini skirt and sunglasses, as she burns down the irresponsible forests and constructs a new reality out of ash and photosynthesis. She runs down freedom’s road with the confessions of criminals exposed to hunger and the intense light of cross-dressing tucked inside with her skinny little chicken wings held high. Then she swallows the real history of parallelograms and crackers.

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Angel, The Mother

Ma: The Healer & The Destroyer

Sometimes ma is glowing in her fruity apron. Sometimes she is sad and sometimes she is a glowing lizard on a bed of velvet roses. Sometimes she is angry and sometimes she is awake when she is asleep. Sometimes she sleeps when she is alive and dead.

Sometimes ma is aware of her biceps and that she is the anti-Christ. Sometimes she is aware she is a vampire annihilating the anti-bodies that enter her canvas. Sometimes she is the quotient and the quadrangle triangulating the quadraphonic sound of blue whales. Sometimes she is a whale and the woman between me and her and sometimes she is the man between me and him. Sometimes she’s a clown.

Sometimes I know what makes ma unhappy and filled with darkness because it’s the same thing that makes me unhappy and filled with darkness. Sometimes I curse the healers who enter our home and try to destroy us with their crystals and incense. Sometimes I destroy the curses that heal us after the healers who have come to destroy us heal the room of wounds. Sometimes I curse the curses who heal the hell out of us for the hell of it because they don’t know what the hell they’re talking about when ma’s heart goes boom boom boom.

Sometimes I walk silently through the house of healers and destroyers, ma and me, and tell each room “I’m sorry” for our trespasses and transience. In sequence. In solemnity and solace. In slippers. In every room, a ghost wants to say “I’m sorry”, but the ghosts are rouses.

Sometimes I walk silently where angel once roamed the surface of the house where ma fears to tread even in her best Jacqueline Smith dress. Sometimes I am too much for ma and she is too much for me just like she was too much for angel and his medicine chest of chests. Sometimes I am too much and never enough even though I know I am a button and ma is a shoe.

Sometimes the knowledge of this differential is enough to heal the equations of the world, the wounds in the room of curses and moans. Sometimes the knowledge of this is forgiveness and sometimes it’s not. Sometimes this knowledge is just knowledge to note the difference between two unknowns. Between healing and destroying. Between practice and partition. Between ma and me. Freud and Jung. The curses between us were promises.

Posted in Almost Dorothy

Angel Wings

Angel | Photo by Neil de la Flor

Sometimes angels are grounded. Bound by gravity. Bound by their desire to fly out of black spaces. Sometimes angel wings are just versions of wings. Versions of what they want their arms to be. Stretched beyond human limbs. Angels light the cosmos with possibilities. Their palms red from so much trying.