Dud Sea Scrawls The Writing, clearly, is not on the wall!

You can depend upon me attempting to take such tender care of a miscellaneous object, and always loving it so well that I become deeply concerned by the idea that it could slip through my fingers, that my losing whatever it might be, for sanity’s sake, could be nothing other than fated. It makes perfect sense. A thing that I am not frantic about stays around for as long as can be. A thing that I should and feel I must hold onto so preoccupies me in a quest to keep it always about me, or in its proper place, that I am certain to quickly move it somewhere for safe-keeping thinking ‘I will surely remember that I’ve stuck this here…” or “This place is so odd a pocket in which to keep something so unrelated to this place’s function that when I think of the thing, I will remember immediately the oddity and be taken right to my loved keepsake…” It never turns out this way. Instead, my seeming secured thing is no longer in need of me worrying over it and I so thoroughly forget its existence that my recent little obsession over it would appear to be more superficial than it actually was to me. In those moments. I can forget things so well that their entering the realm of lost…being lost…of loss (what best to call it, I can’t decide)…can take long and long whiles. Years, I’m saying. Weeks or months as well, but yes, even years.

When next I remember by wanting the thing–in that very moment, there is no lukewarm taste for it–it is a beastly hunger I can drum up. It puts me in the mind of those Medieval biles you learned of in school (if you were lucky in your bit of public education). Only I’ve got one all my own that comes out as a result of having lost my…or being in a state of loss about…my thing. It is as if it made me well, or helped to…as well as I am, anyway. Without it I froth and spill over, at the mouth and other orifices, a globule-filled, blinding green (that is neon, you understand), cottage cheese-like substance. And it burns, the realization that it is gone, which is how the loss manifests. The realization of the loss is the burning, blinding, green bile that my body expels from all the open orifices (not counting the skin’s pores, which makes for a more meaningful and unsettling visual). And there are tears. Silent tears. Its hard to explain but its something that Julie Taymor could effectively make three-dimensional and beautiful, even as the image breaks each heart it encounters.

All that and I haven’t yet said what is gone from me. It isn’t what you think it is, either…

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