May 23, 2015

ARCHETYPE TALKS

by Jesse Hewit / Writing

 

ARCHETYPE TALKS:

 
 

destroyer: the intentions of my hands are less obvious than ever. they are skilled, floating, prodding, planning, they are also necessarily reckless and beautiful. it’s all about the times they are in. my hands move through time right now. I am following them closely. i am dancing from them, typing from them, giving them special future-seeing goggles and letting them loose. my hands my hands my hands. strong little fuckers. let’s see if they’re too stubborn or maybe too too ambitious. they will rip when coaxed.

student: god, i am listening. so closely too. i have my head so close to the ground i feel like it might be beneficial to just dig a hole and cut off an ear and just bury it here. so that it’s official. so that no one can mistake me for anything but A LISTENER. everyone i see is a sign. i am ridiculous. i bore into people’s faces and pores. i scramble to hear everything, taste everything. when the river comes,  want to be ready, in my swim trunks, face forward, confident or at least not too afraid. i stretch my joints to prepare. and by joints of course i mean heart.

critic: this is where it gets violent. i have no room for such hate. i am getting old. i am getting accustomed. the act of looking at oneself has to move in the direction of: just work. if i work, then i don’t have time to peel my skin back and spit in the crevices. thank god. I’m so rash-covered and raw from this bullshit. I am angry at my anger, that’s all. the critic sits, chained to chair. it has no thrash. but it still has presence. and all i can do is read more, cry more, and move more in order to keep leveling the playing field. we shall overcome. i shall. I’m gonna build those special shoes that let me walk accross the water, but also sink in just enough to remind me of the weight of my choices. this is sufficient. sufficiency is beautiful and paralysis is cancer. stay put, little fucker. stay put.

prostitute: he is my foil these days. he has rabies. he bites at anything that isn’t familiar…like a child. what he is NOT is brave. and i hate him for this. he could be so strong, so sinewy and milky smooth, but instead he clips off his angles and features with shame….still this shame. i think i just need to burrow into the body. burrow into the fairy tales of fucking and cruising and giving and taking. its okay to admit that it’s all poetry. that none of it is functional. THAT’S THE POINT. thats the risk: the prostitute chokes me perfectly into a work of pleasure and OUT of a world of practicality. and it’s just as it should be because the prostitute, for me, is the keeper of balance. it’s specific to me. i revel in it. YES, i need to understand pleasure in terms of desperate buying and selling. and this is how i reclaim. so be it.

alchemist: don’t ask me. all I’m doing is standing in the center of different tornadoes. i haven’t gained any new skills. I’m just using all 15 of my eyes at the same time and they’re still not telling me anything that changes the weather. so fuck it. i am resisting the impulse to write it all down. to start understanding it. i go into the room, i lay down, i am back up, standing, shit starts to fall from my mouth, i let it land, i turn away, and i am pulled to the window. this is today’s perfection. fine. good. i can’t explain.

destroyer: it may look good to you, hell it may even look good to everybody, but i built it so i know that it’s garbage, believe me, everyone. my intelligence may be violent but it’s clear. like grass. so back up and let me necessarily wad up the work of my blood and my time. it’s my right. (I HATE THE VERTIGO OF IT ALL).

student: how long do i have to lay like this? my back is getting tight. my skin is getting younger so fast that i may start to lose the ability to wear lotions and big sprays. i just feel like i’ve put myself through too much to be wearing this little tractor. this little drool puddle. this little score card. this little test score. this little mashed up piece of nutrition. i am starting to suspect that i can handle the hard stuff, and also i know that thinking like this is the beginning of the end. I’m sorry. hurt me. turn me over. I’m sorry. i’ll never talk like that again. just don’t stop showing me things. just don’t bury me in the ground while i can still think and imagine colors and problems. i promise to sit still and open my mouth super wide.

prostitute: i know you. you’re that dick from down the street. you’re that jackass from the backyard. i know you and I’m fine with how you are. here’s my proposal: you and me go through that one scenario where i don’t actually know exactly what’s going to happen, i’ll cum 100 times, and then we’ll take a nap. yeah? there’s so much on my tongue. there’s also a perfect silver rope from my brain to my purse to my asshole to my sense of self and it is firmly knotted right now, so fall in line, people. it’s just a matter of me saying it. and once my mouth opens, i can have anything. these are the complicated and loving lies i tell myself. tuesday looks a little different than how i’ve painted it, i guess

critic: it’s a tightness today. it’s a vice on my temples, it’s a superficial bully who won’t let my vision expand past the far sides of my eyebrows and it’s frustrating to say the least. the biggest concern, of course, is that i deserve every last swat, every last crushing thwack, every last thud to the soft spot. also, i think i left most of the constitution of this beast back in my last habit. maybe I’m growing. also, maybe I’m just ruining everything.

alchemist: what a fucking busy-body. she just can’t see the way that the sand and the stillness can actually rebuild your cells. also, with her, it’s becoming an issue of strongly researched resistance. people are just moving on. trends happen. i hear there are a bunch of pretty ones over on the east side, trying to constantly take things apart instead of putting them together. i hear they’re swimming in revelation. i hear the weather is kind. maybe she should reconsider how she swings her arms in that collecting way. maybe she should put down the test tubes. maybe she should knock her own head against ___________________.

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/cover photo by Robbie Sweeny