Posts made in December, 2015

Blog #38: Egoic Introspective

Blog #38: Egoic Introspective

  “So, it’s been a while; anything new with you?” “My therapist says I’m a schizoid.” “Really? You have a therapist?” “No. Oh—and she also says I’m delusional…”   * Event Horizon   This is the Event Horizon of Me… where corporeity and spirituality meet— in dark and light, of great and slight, heavy and… well, light (again)… yin and yang, passive and aggressive, manic and depressive, sweet and sour chicken —just skip that last bit!— schizoid and whorish exhibitionist… love and hate, magnanimity and chagrin, pride and prejudice… Moby Dick, The Grapes of Wrath, Great Expectations —dammitbloodyalltohell! …and this thermos.   *   “This is all your fault!” “Oh, but my dear—my darling! …when I am tsar, I shall make you my tsarina!” “But what about my husband?” Laughing: “Oh, my dearest, darling, doobie-doobie-doo… who said anything about killing?”   *   …may I be filled with loving kindness… (…may there be fewer assholes…) …may I be well… (…may I be inured to the pain…) …may I be peaceful and at ease… (…don’t let the bastards get me down!) …may I be happy… (I know not what.)   *   Musings #6: an Infinitesimal Spasm of Being   Her belly was soft and smooth, pale in contrast to the dark, sunburned flesh of her face and arms and legs… her belly-button seemed angry, all knotted up—confusion, frustration, angst, and rage—as if fraught with belligerent notions of unraveling, to spill her innards in a soupy, stinking mess, dripping down her legs, splooching all about her feet…   Potemkin’s horns itch… Vronsky looms for various other scratchings… Groznyi succumbs to the Dark Energy of the Myriad Chilicosms and (inadvertently and epistemologically) becomes EVERYTHING…   Mishka faded away today—from a complete lack of ever doing anything… it would have all been very sad, of course, had anyone actually noticed.    *  Happy 2016?   # # # #   —Mishka Zakharin © 2015   http://www.amazon.com/Natalyas-Tale-Mishka-Zakharin-ebook/dp/B014AO0YWK/ref=sr_1_11?ie=UTF8&qid=1451148977&sr=8-11&keywords=mishka+zakharin  ...

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Blog #37: The Path of Totality

Blog #37: The Path of Totality

She was almost attractive, and you could tell she was bitter about the near miss… with a behind just a tad too generous for the hot-pants she sported—and a face to match! (Whatever that meant…) The only thing reasonably attractive about her was her neck: it was beautiful! Long (though not in a giraffe-ish kind of way) and smooth and thin and graceful and softly tanned and nicely moisturized but not greasy… Many were the men who had gazed longingly at her neck, only to find themselves forced unto the harsh reality of her sneering lips or cloudy eyes or pocked complexion or myriad, nubby breasts (like a cat, she had as few as four but as many as ten at any given moment, but always an even number) or her hair, like a splattering of dung by something that had eaten a lot of string. Instead of proper feet, she had lobster claws—but if ever she was caught with her shoes off she pretended she was from Maine; her accent wasn’t great, but she could sell it with how she smelled sort of fishy. Her name was Petra Oleaginos—of the New South Bedford West Oleaginoses (the ones from the old, upper east side in the north part of town)—and most everyone just called her Petra Oleaginos. It was, of course, not at all original, but then again—   Hoyt Dvorak wasn’t having any of it. “I’ll not have it,” he said in complete redundancy to the narrative. “It simply shall not be!” “It’s already done, you big hoyt-dvorak,” said Petra, pulling the muck of her hair away from her neck and whorishly thrusting her throat toward him. Seeing he was not to be mesmerized by her sultry neckedness, she festered glumly half a moment. “And, anyway, is it really so bad?” “To have my dreams shattered?” replied Hoyt, sprawled out upon the cold, snowy ground—in Christ-like effigy (sans the bleeding wounds, but complete with torn and tawdry loincloth). Hoyt Dvorak was like a fungus, only taller. “To have my hopes and desires stripped from me? Then where am I—what am I left with if I’ve been utterly bereft of everything that makes my life worthwhile?” Petra shrugged. “Eggs?” “Hm, yes, thank you.” Hoyt was barely mollified. Dragging himself up and burrowing into his coat, he sat down beside Petra on the park bench. “The dreams of your desires...

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