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

Angel: Belief System

Saint Michael | Photo by Neil de la Flor
Saint Michael | Photo by Neil de la Flor

“A writer must always tell the truth.” —Gore Vidal

PROLOGUE

Ma is traumatized again because she believes in the power of vulnerability. Believes in the brighter lights obscured and shadowed by the minor shipwrecks and catastrophes of existence. Believes in the cosmic burst of light in the dark that began it all. She believes fiercely in her two selves—the heart diagnostic self (the emotional self) and the head diagnostic self (the intelligent self). She believes in flesh and bone, glitter and glow. Believes in practical magic and mambo. Subarus and salvation. Rachmaninoff and Ladytron. The stars and the moon. Shadows and soon. But, most of all, ma believes in the sublime susceptibility of humankind(ness) and the invincible flashlights of angels.

IN THE BEGINNING, DECEMBER 2010,

when ma met Angel, she said she jumped in with the full force of the wingless because she is not a bird. She said she didn’t even have one wing. Now ma is curled up on our bed with my batwings wrapped around her solemn mess as she munches on an empty bag of Lay’s Potato Chips as she clicks and clicks the blue lava lamp on/off on/off like Glenn Close did in Fatal Attraction. Ma is fetal-like and nebulous in the intermittent blue glow of light and no light. Write about it, ma said Angel said. And leave me alone. But ma can’t write, not yet, because her ego is a complex conjugation of egg and yolk—sense and no-sense—that she knows she will never understand even in the divine stillness of her most enlightened and aligned yoga position. There are no coherent narratives, ma said, in a shattered mirrorball. I told her I would write her story for her instead, so I did, and will, even with her mouth shut tight.

Angel told ma he was HIV negative when they met even though Angel knew he was probably HIV positive. She asked him about his status before they met because ma is like that. It was even written on his profile, she said, on the dating website where we first met. And it’s still there 9 months after ma took care of him after his diagnosis. When they actually really met in person for the first time, ma asked him again and he said he was HIV negative again. And that was that. What the hell, ma said. What the hell. At some point you have to trust the living or you live in a constant state of spiraling mistrust and fear. So they had sexual relations. And it was fine. It went like this and that and ma said Angel didn’t want her to leave his side because of the humane connection that had developed between them, so he held her tight just like my batwings are holding ma tight now with a potato chip bag clenched in her teeth. Ma said she preferred hugs to a notional life of sex anyway even though she has no problem with sex as sex or sex as an open window we sometimes use to guide each other into and through the surreal, fractured landscapes of our manufactured egos.

You can’t hold love in your body, she said. With the kindness of hugs and kisses even from the hardest of hearts.

Ma said she didn’t care if he was HIV positive or HIV negative because she lives in the real world and would have had sex with him anyway and stayed by his side, which she eventually did through the most radical transition an angel can experience, because ma believes in the power of loving humankind(ness). Ma just wanted to know. Just in case. Because in the Age of Information there is no excuse for misinformation with the miracle of post-exposure prophylaxis. He had reasons to fear revelation, ma said. Because revelation requires guidance. It’s not easy being alone, vulnerable and crippled by shame and regret. Ma supported his silence in silence as her body moved radically against her silence in its attempt to draw him into the light of awareness. But in this process of reverse rationalization and narration one must stop and return to point A and face the light head on.

Ma believed in Angel (and still does) because she believes in herself. Believes in her power of perception and emotional intelligence. In her graceless wisdom and improbable compassion. In her mistakes and trippy tippy toes. In faith and foresight. Patience and providence. Ma said she isn’t afraid of death or dying or contracting or developing this or that because she is aware she will die one day no matter what she she does. But the unintended consequences of shame, ma said, are costly burdens that weigh down the wings of angels weighing down the limbs of the living with iron balls.

Ma believed (and still believes) Angel because she believes in cosmic love born out of bedrooms on the bay, the front seats of sports cars, a pier overlooking the same bay, Key West and Saint Augustine, foyers and Florida rooms, chat rooms and dream states, doctor offices and diagnostic sites and any and every place humans reveal their most vulnerable selves and share responsibility for living with other humans being.

Ma believed Angel because he believes in angels. He believes in God and the violet light, the Universe and levitation, chants and oms, Saint Germain and Saint Michael, Christ and Krishna, Buddha and Shiva, the Bhagavad Gita. She believed Angel because she doesn’t believe in any of that but she is always open to the ever expanding room of experience. Even though ma believes in logic and science, X-rays and MRIs, ELISA tests and red shift, emotions and intelligence and in her fierce inability to be immune to the process of cognition, she always believes in absolute risk.

In every low risk situation there’s always a moment of absolute risk, ma said. At the moment of climax one has to decide what to do with what’s to come. That forces the blaring headlights of revelation.

In April, four months after they met, ma asked Angel again after visible signs appeared that pointed to a radical decline in his immune system. In her car parked in front of Buck 15, she closed her eyes and asked him again if he’d ever been tested. No, I’ve never been tested, he said. I don’t believe in Western medicine. It’s a test, ma said she said to him. Not medicine.

This act of empowerment, of closing her eyes while opening his, allowed ma to see the silences burst out of him as a thing in being, like a floating orb that was stunningly clear and fragile and vulnerable and scared and fiercely defensive as it spun violently like a massive tornado destroys everything between heaven and hell. Ma asked him in the front seat of her shitty sports car on a humid Thursday night and that’s when ma knew there was no shaking it out. No turning back. No more lights out. Just go.

What the hell, ma said.

When ma surrendered to the light, her two selves merged into one. She asked the questions no one wanted to answer. She plugged into the grid of dis-empowerment that weighed him down. Since ma is not a bird, she couldn’t and wouldn’t fly away even if she were a bird. Love is a complex conjugate of revelations, ma said. I tapped into his grid and absorbed his city of information into my sensory system just like an angel must absorb the entire history of a civilization into her bones.

Posted in Almost Dorothy

The Specificity of Red

Ladytron | Miami | Photo by Neil de la Flor

1. I’ve gone missing inside of reddish hula hoop.

2. I’m back from the red.

3. Now I’m ready.

4. And I’m running away from an invasion of solidly insane chickens

5. or the sound of chickens.

6. Chickens are impossible pests like the possible pests in my red oven.

7. I’m not specifically red.

9. Not as poetic as chick peas or a marble pieta of Jesus and Mary.Or Joseph.

10. The photograph above is a photo[graph] of a ghost eating toast.

12. Not really.

13. It’s a lady

14. tron.

Posted in Almost Dorothy

The Painted Desert

Painted Desert | Photo by Neil de la Flor

I swear I’m still here somewhere solidly light and levitating between Gravity the Seducer and the Witching Hour. Ma says I should go out and play but I can’t play because I’m working on a new play titled, “A New Play[a]”. I swear there are no swear words or conversations with giraffes in this play. Not even the words fuck or shit. There’s not a bad word on any page. I haven’t written any pages yet, but it’s all in my head. Every word, every sentence fills my cranium like the dust filled our lungs when we got stuck in a sand storm in the Painted Desert. Ma and I, petrified in the face of dust and disaster, hid beneath a bridge. We froze and huddled together. Held each other tight–our arms the arms of velociraptors. We inhaled with carefulness until danger passed us to the left. My new play is a play about dust and lungs, about a girl who becomes a girl after 20 years of searching for her Ladytron. Searching for a way out of the desert and into her mother’s arms.

To be, more or less, continued…

Posted in Almost Dorothy

Burning Up [after Ladytron]

1. I wrote a protest song about ma.

2. She found it and set me on fire with her cigarette butt. It’s been a rough week on the 7 1/2 seas.

3. Aren’t all the seas part of the same sea?

4. Why do we have to divide the oceans into 7 Cs?

5. I’m gonna write a protest song against people who wear boxes on their head.

6. Sometimes I just write things down because I can.

7. Seven.

8. Ate.

9. You thought I was gonna write spaghetti.

10. Last night I fell in the space between ma and the dresser. Found a bit of gravity to dance with.

11. I fell like Icarus from the sky except I was in ma’s bed with her gigantic gay bat wings wrapped around me.

12. I protest this song about protest.

13. If I had a soul, it would be Joan of Arc as Helen Mirren.

14. If I were an arc, I would curve toward the burning seas.

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Culture Clash

Almost Dorothy Is Back

Almost Dorothy Wasn’t Born this Way | Photo by Neil de la Flor

My alter-ego is back. He (or she-he) spent the week writing brilliant stuff at BAP, Bad Ass  Poetry, I mean, the Best American Poetry blog. By brilliant stuff, I don’t mean turkey stuffing. I mean semi-well lit and deranged writings that are luminous (because they were written by candle light), goofy, sad, stupid, smart, funky, discoish, totally gay,  impersonal, way too personal, problematic, polemic, prosthetic, hectic, corny, cheesy, divine, trashy, semi-soft pornographic (not really) and, most of all, honest (more or less).

I’m glad my alter-ego is back. I’m glad he has taken over my body again. I’m glad because I think he may have learned something about himself that he didn’t know before, but knew, but didn’t want to accept. Anyway, hopefully he’ll treat me better and not make me write stupid things on this blog too often. But, I won’t hold my breath, because a breath is really hard to hold in one’s hand.

Here are the links to this weeks postal posts at BAP if you wanna read. Don’t take it all too seriously. Please. 

July 10, 2011: “Oprah, Mood, Swings, Set, Go, (Dis)order”. Excerpt: “Last night I took the “Mood Disorder Questionnaire” at http://www.oprah.com because I believe in Oprah, polar bears and the accuracy of self-diagnosis on the Internet at the witching hour while moderately depressed. In other words, I had nothing better to do.”

July 11, 2011: “Kazaky, Wonder Woman, Pedicures, Lago Mar, & Other Stuff”. Excerpt: “I need a pedicure. I need to spend more time Little Miss Sunshining my ass on a hammock on Fort Lauderdale beach. I need to live in the present tense. I need to stop caring about my presence in the present tense. Ghosts exist in every tense–past, future, present and inside the tenses that exist in between these.”

July 12, 2011: “Mama Mia, Chiquitita, Sinead O’Connor, Ladytron and Pegasus“. Excerpt: “Resistance is futile, so I bought tickets to see (the best damn) ABBA (tribute band in the world) next week at the Hardrock Casino in Hollywood, Florida. I’m super excited because “Mama Mia” may go with us. She is a “Super Trouper” and a “Dancing Queen”. We invited “Fernando”, but he has to work, which is too bad because he does the best Cubano rendition of “Chiquitita” never recorded.”

July 13, 2011: “Florence + The Machine, Piss Christ, War, Little Miss Sunshine, District 9 & Then Some”. Excerpt: “This is what I taught this semester while wearing a fedora: Florence + the Machine: I’m obsessed with Florence and her red hair. I’m obsessed with her cosmic voice. I’m obsessed with her lineage and her Celtic robes. I think she is an extraordinary terrestrial.”

July 14, 2011: “Do Not Disturb Rocks & Other Things I Saw Today”. Excerpt: “I took a coffee break. I passed by Saint Anthony’s Church. I saw this statue and took a photograph of it to remind me that I am not a statue.”

July 15, 2011: “Disco”. Excerpt: “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to disco.”

July 16, 2011: “Goldfrapp, Stepmothers, Scissors, Brandon, Depeche Mode, & Why I Was Born (More or Less) This Way”. Excerpt: “I’ve walked into strange places where, say, a DJ spin spins beneath a canopy of scissors and walked out because I am afraid of heights, of danger, of people and places that take me out of my center of gravity. When danger enters my life like an uninvited ghost with scissors, I use to run. No more. Because there is beauty in danger if you give it enough time to reveal itself.”