I had to hsve still believed in magic to some degree, because in all of the applicable ways it made sense, I applied it— much with reverence and spirituality such is religion, all of my ritual occultation was indeed still based in the science of source, as to say that God itself was all the major diety I needed to call upon, in prayer and in this thought process. I was more in alignment with this definition of divinity than with any given science or religion, or rather an antithesis of either, because as it seemed the walls would draw in on one or another, I found myself and my God at the center of all things, both dark and light— encompassing both the greatness of what was as known, and also not— the words and words seeming to pour from me like another space in time was held inside myself and beyond what even I could have understood.
I couldn't force my artwork, and even knowing that I was slipping between the cracks as far as deadlines were concerned I was wreaking havoc in another realm of artistic torture— knowing what I already had, but could not possibly forage or put out— my unplublished works a daunting reminder of what was about me, but was not known. Then again, as an artist, I wondered had I any purpose at all in being known, or was it just some kind of harsh injustice to my own talent that I would hide in the shadows while I presumed some other alias or moniker would take the spotlight, and especially so for some of my more controversial tones and pieces.
Overall, I was devastated that these two years just as any other period in my life seemed just to be a fight against whatever the opposite of God was and my own absence from this light I with desperation called upon over and over— with the knowing well that in time and never my own that it did work, and that this magic and occult was a real substance, but never in the way that I might think or understand, and most certainly not under the guise of any rules of expectation.
I was a flying saucer in the vast expanse of outer known time, and my own body was something like a waking memory of sliver for all that was and all I had done and could do in conciousness. In that aspect, I was not awake, and only dreaming in a way that was personified by my self in the physical realm where I seemed to be having some kind of shattered montage of a life awakened from a death sleep and into the afterlife of an only somewhat waking world— the twisted bodies surrounding none less than the half capacity I'd ever had to congulate an imaged world in my own fortune, and I was sure otherwise I was half braindead or some partial version of a somewhat paralyzed and seemingly unconscious drone of one world or another, my inner essence escaping for freedom and in the silent darkness screaming up to the gathered surface to please pull the plug— to let me pass on, and to go into the world of fortune; under the circumstances it appeared as if the darkness was always grasping at its chance to imprison even this of what was left, along the lines of gratitude I felt shattered but also honored; whatever I was had also kept itself tied to these words and these colorful arts as a hidden sign that there was a truth in this previous life that had went unsaid.
And so magic it was as it pertained to God because I believed in both or as one as another or one in the same.
I couldn't make any sense of what seemed to be some kind of telepathic connection with the host of the tonight show, which I kept at a safe enough and respectable distance, but perhaps maybe it was telemetry. Perhaps somehow my strange frequency was intercepting with a broadcast signal, or a radio tower, or perhaps it was the show itself— as I called it, the ghost of Johnny Carson.
Overall I hadn't meant for it to happen, but it did seem to always kind of rather by accident happen— my strange dreams of all the people coming together for the 50th anniversary of Saturday night live, and though for some or whatever reason thinking it would stop, but it hadn't, and in fact rumbling thoughts of mark wahlberg and some of the other recent guests could not have been a coincidence, nor could have been what seemed at the time Robert Dinero or any of the others who had been blooming in my mind in the weeks leading up to the event and I couldn't have considered it any more after being unable to focus on anything besides what seemed to have been a protruding vein from the poor man's forehead, which for myself had made me promise not to look at all too closely—
Then, here it was nearly a year later and I couldn't do anything but momentarily curse aloud and pause in the thought of not letting myself go north of where I was in my media calling; even in the modern world of horrid things one human being does to another, under no circumstances whatsoever could I continue l to belittle and downplay my own self respect, especially in the grips of something that felt like a more rising sense of urgency than ever— I hadn't had sex in year with anyone, and there were very few things I actually wanted. I was increasingly picky to my own demise, and increasingly delusional, and vulnarable in such a sense that anything I knew I wanted, I also knew to respect myself enough to stay far away from. Not so much the double edged sword was this than simply knowing better— the other hosts and almost all the world were safe— this was not.
I kept it out of the news
I kept it out of the noose
As far as my head is concerned
But after awhile, when I started to smile
Now more than ever I've got more than nothing to lose.
I'm a straight jacket away from an Oscar
And eight days from my triumph
I called also the Ace of the Spades,
I'm tipping my hat to your making
I've got more than four words
But the forward was barely a dollar.
I give not a gasp but a grasping at petals
And a wind in the forager,
So much beyond what I know is unmasked
It took me two times to find you out..
It's not my fault, I'm not the one.
And still, you saw what God I was.
The god of Chaos, not my love.
Caring verily fir your thanks
But still untied I gallop!
Not to mark my time to dust
As there to wait in forests wonder,
Catching, maybe, as you were
But still my tied to bark an order
The wake to drift the call to forward,
And coming in the mark I gathered
And yet the waiting shadows foraged
(And also in the art I bathe)
Several other ballads pondered
To mine ties, your art my word
And so you are, then my kite!
I am both what kite and wind you may;
But what of stone and rock?
[suddenly, in modern tongue]
CONAN O BRIEN wakes up suddenly in his pleated blue pajamas from what seems like a very deep sleep.
Surfing? I think I will go surfing.
He gets out of bed and stares out of the window at the sunrise; it is a picturesque Californian day.
I guess any time I try to terminate my state of being,
You're really right; this is a death curse
You're really right, this is a death curse
Any time I try to find my way out, I am exiled
You're right, this is a time bomb
You're right, I've got my eyes closed
Are there any intimate conclusions?
Are there any derelictions, or delusions?
And redactions or delirium, any infinity?
Stuff the earplugs in a little deeper little longer,
Then we all get caught in martyrdom
He was born and gone in such an instant
First as dog and then as servant
Other Master is absolved and yet absorbent
I get caught in my own foul ball
Just decided to cast you all out
The snake still slithered,
Just I just forgot I was never pardoned
I smell howling. Hogties withered out ones,
Wondered weathered swallows
You tip your hat to my making—
Then, gripping in the wakes
They says have ceased and the harp has stung sound,
Not one but two sour notes aching,
And there I bartered with all but nothing that I had
Then angst in me mine soul and my ties,
My ways were na'er seek but shattered also
I lake in lessons and drift in oceans and drown in all our skies, azure and lavender,
Creeping in the cape that is both overshadowed our, I
Gripping in the ways seeks foreign to none and also listened in your foyer
Waking not as ghosts but yet as haunted
Here tith thee my tide and I bade farewell
And fate he they to keep our half tide
I am hiding in your wakes and in my foreign
I am forgotten and also withered, gathered!
I am decrcrepit and unloved kept secret
I am as shamed and as unwell as all our sick and tired
I am as outside as the grass and trees have slaughtered I am as ancient as before the oceans tide did bring, my kind did watch your light come for us out of darkness
And into my shores of only oceans you not know,
My thoughts be born into your shadows
And my own making is your honor
Uh. Did you bring a bird with you into the office.
I killed myself on his birthday
But luckily it's also Obama's
To this day I want another body
What does that even mean!
He follows me everywhere.
See, I've got to figure this out, because it seems like, indirectly, sometimes the weird and random things going on in my head, are at least very partially
This makes whatever I'm supposed to do increasingly difficult, on the basis that [Ahem] SNL alumni that [uncontrollable fit of hysterical coughing] ago.
I can't understand what I might have done to deserve this kind of torture—
My own accidental muses have all been [birds, at some point or another],
Untouchable, entirely separate other monsters, and I've often thought that perhaps this is my kind of purgatory;
Because I fell so insensibly and head over heels in love before and was still rampantly tortured and undermined,
I was unwilling to see myself in any sort of attainable situation,
And so everything had become some sort of fantastical delusion—
Or perhaps even a hope that I could at the very least
Become something greater; in that understanding the factors that were determining the outcomes of these other peoples lives I for whatever reason seemed to be magnetized to, I could emulate myself into a situation where none of it any longer mattered.
Still, it was some sort of strange fascination that anytime someone seemingly out of place appeared somewhere in my dreams or in my rampant and running thoughts, they just so happened to be hovering somewhere near this [concept], and while it seemed some sort of intriguing, it was also deeply troubling, and dangerous, and wore on my consciousness in ways I could not consider well at all, or forward thinking
Discussing this sort of feelings would simply mean a diagnosis of some sort of delusions, but without the risk of doing that far, I could simply only attribute it to some sort of spiritual purpose, which at the very least in the safest way, was most probably one sided.
I was just a troubled girl in a lot of pain, and somehow my brain was wrapping itself around a way to manage this constant sort of torture.
Oh this is so much funnier with the [redactions]
It was different, maybe, not because it sounded different. It sounded the same, exactly. But the difference was, I was listening as a producer, and not as some girl that was in love with him. Or— thought she was.
Now I didn't think anything much besides how well it would mash with any of my other favorite songs, by my other favorite artists— or how it was mixed just right and how some sounds hit in the head, and some in the top and how I knew how to do that, but I was kind of lazy. I thought about the glue that held everything together, which is what pissed me off about his music— sounds that didn't come apart and made entirely new sounds together from whatever they once were, because they were so meticulously plastered that way. This kind of engineering gave way to perfectly round spheres elsewhere, or perhaps even the kind of colors in other music but wasn't so much any one thing or another here. Perhaps the point was, that at the time, it was sort of abstract in a way that set a new norm. Now everyone sounded like him— besides him: who could say who he really was presently anyway, besides him, if even that— or the people around him; a constantly changing array of whatever's…things and persons I'd stopped being mad about ages ago. At least, sort of.
I was still kind of mad, but more that I still just paled in comparison, and almost that I'd lost total interest, besides learning this: what I could apply to it now, knowing what I knew, but still might never possibly achieve, not at this point anymore because I couldn't..:but perhaps because I didn't want to.
And it really was great— eight or ten or twelve Grammies great, but I was just kind of— not that. Not the way I used to be. Still, I gave myself the benefit of the doubt.
[The Festival Project, Inc. ™]
Copyright athe Complex Collective © 2025
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