February 25th, 2010 by Hoopleton

February 22^nd

Today I noticed a yellow house with a red chimney creeping across my front lawn. As I walked out to investigate it suddenly planted its foundations into my driveway making any attempt to leave by way of the garage impossible. I’ll wait till tomorrow and hope the house continues down the block, if it doesn’t I’m afraid I may be forced to lodge a formal complaint with the City.

February 23^rd

The yellow house didn’t budge all night and this morning I decided to confront the owner directly. As I knocked on the front door a kindly elderly woman answered and invited me inside for tea. After exchanging a few pleasantries and some talk of the weather I brought up the subject of property lines. The elderly woman, Mrs. Neilson, insisted that her house had always been where it is and that it was my house that was the intruder. I proposed that she inspect the property for herself, but she remained adamant. The rest of the day was spent trying to navigate my car around Mrs. Neilson’s front porch, to no avail.

February 24^th

After another unsuccessful attempt at direct reconciliation I decided to call the City. Speaking with several department heads proved fruitless. Apparently the City has never dealt with property incursion by an entire house before. The only advice they could offer was that I wait until housing prices drop and hope that the yellow house go elsewhere. When I reminded them that we were in the midst of a housing crisis they assured me that there were many neighborhoods within the city valued much higher than mine. In the afternoon I noticed Mrs. Neilson’s grandson mowing my lawn, however he assured me it wasn’t my lawn he was mowing.

February 25^th

In the middle of the night the yellow house transplanted itself closer making it impossible to exit by the front door. In the morning the Fire Department arrived and cited me for creating a fire hazard. When I tried to explain the situation the Captain of the Fire Brigade insisted that I move my house thirty feet into my backyard to provide proper clearance. I once again attempted to speak with Mrs. Neilson, but was discouraged to find a note on her front door informing the post office that she’d be on vacation in Florida for the next several weeks. I fear that by the time she returns I may be little more than a tenant in the yellow house with the red chimney.

February 21st, 2010 by Hoopleton

I feel the rain. And the sun. And the moon. I feel the snow on my face. I feel the wind against my back and the dead leaves under my bare feet. I feel the grass and the trees rising around me. The clouds parting. The lightening coil with an explosion of terrible harmony writhing against the heavens.

These things are hardly immaterial. They are untoward signs of rejuvenation. Or is it reconstitution? Perhaps birthing. It doesn’t matter, our language is too imperfect, but back on point, it’s a beginning most definite.

I am only slowed by my uncertainty. I still have no real notion of what a man is, the examples I’m allotted are mostly defective. Broken and violent. Bestial. Carnal. Ferine. What has made them this way? Flawed design or illicit tampering? And in this equation what is my sum total? Am I the aberration?

Because I can feel?

Because I am overwhelmed by feeling?

Because the feelings that overwhelm me are too much?

Too much for my body?

Too much for my soul?

Too much for my spirit to repress, reverse or revile?

Because I love?

Because I am loved?

Because I have love?

Because we have everything to hope for?

Because we have meaning?

Because we as a single jarring atom have a greater meaning than the soft rhythm of a bouncing, gyrating, whirling string of energy.

And since all that has passed will come again and again I feel the replete wholeness of all that was and everything that may be. Forever. Into the sliding dark. And the sun. And the moon. And the organic entirety of celestial habitation. Choirs of angels. An orchestra of resplendent green, living agony. Until the stars rupture and only radioactive dust lingers within the cathedral gates.

Not, mind you, that I am at all closer to knowing what a man should be or to what a man ever was, but I’d like to think that gender is as meaningless as any word, the Word, spoken by any prophet or god or profiteering preacher that ever walked the Earth. And only in this do I find the certainty to let go of all my burdens. To feel. To laugh. To cry. To be the animal capable of grace, of place, of self-awareness.

To be this, as I am, as we are, this is rejuvenation. The prodigious incarnation of creation. The spark of life. The totality of genesis. Lingering for always. Right up till the falling, collapsing, foundering of the bright blue sky.

February 16th, 2010 by Hoopleton

Where is the light? It’s late and you haven’t come to bed and you haven’t kissed me or for that matter ever really kissed me. So where is the light but between the spaces that we inhabit. Perpetually. Eternally. Forever. And I know. I know. I know. I know what you’re going to say. That you imagine me at fifty. Lines round my face. Strands of grey lost in the tussle of my hair. Fingers bleeding ink. But the very real fact of it is that I was in love with you before I was in love with you and then at fifty I’ll still be in love with you. Wrinkled and much closer to the end than I was ever to the beginning. Still searching for the words to describe you. Still lost staring at you. Still completely obsessed with you. And again still you never having really kissed me because all of our even most sensual moments couldn’t come close to the kind of closeness that I desire from you. To be near you, with you, in you is not enough. I need to be you. I am the pure voice. My throat bare to the sun. As I bite into the curve of your neck, your flesh melting against my tongue, my hands grasping for your thighs, and hips and waist, I feel the light just out of reach. And your scent fills me. God, even when I’m alone your scent fills me. My hands tremble uncontrollably and I feel again everything I felt that night by candlelight when everything fell apart. Even then at fifty I’m consumed by you. Destroyed by you. Alive with you. And every moment from now till then races through my head. Your son. Our son. The daughter we’ll have. The homes we’ll build. The stories we’ll write. The food we’ll toss in the trash while we laugh off wine and packs of cigarettes. I’ll show you the world and make love to you, have sex with you, fuck you in every room. In every room. I’ll live only for you. I’ll live forever if you ask me to. And when you want the light, the moon, the sun, the incandescent glow of streetlamps, I’ll construct furnaces, bonfires, pyres. I’ll build stars for you. Never again will you know black. But you’re right, it’s late and I should come to bed.

February 14th, 2010 by Hoopleton

Not a day goes by that I am not supremely grateful, as truly we should all be, that Jennifer Aniston is a bright, constant fixture in our otherwise dark, dank, depressing world. Thank God for Jennifer Aniston. It’s all right to say it. To stand up out of your seat and shout, thank God for Jennifer Aniston! Go ahead, print can wait.

Feel better?

You feel better.

Jennifer Aniston is not unlike a patron saint, or if you prefer a more classical archetype, a sort of demi-goddess. Except, whereas in ages past lesser gods were charged with mundane tasks such as ensuring a good harvest or warding against demonic possession, Jennifer protects us from the complete collapse of American civilization.

We dwell in horrid times. The economy is stagnant. Our standing is in sharp decline. Two wars abroad drag on without end. Taxes and deficits rise. Our roads and bridges crumble. Climate change and a lack of forward thinking threaten to undo what meager standard of living we’re able to achieve. The President we elected on the fragile hope of change has proven himself little more than a mediocre politician whose real powers seem only to lay in his ambition. The opposition built against him is little more than a feckless mob of sophists. Society teeters on the brink as mass violence and acts of legislative discrimination fill our headlines daily.

If it wasn’t for Jennifer Aniston and her constant, unending torrent of personal front-page disasters we as a culture might very well lose any and all will to continue. We’d fall into utter despair. Mass suicide would sweep the nation. We’d have nothing to distract us from the bottomless pit of agony that is our lives.

Terrorist plot to destroy a flight into Detroit? The deficit hitting a record $1.35 trillion? Iran developing nuclear weapons? Huh? Wait. Did you hear what John Mayer just said? Brangolina adopted another child? Management tanked at the box office? Poor Jennifer. What were we talking about? OMG a Friends rerun! She really did have great hair. Poor Jennifer.

Yes, it’s just that easy.

Maybe one day, long from now, when these times of trepidation have past and people look back with wonder as to how any of us could have ever possibly survived such ordeals, Jennifer Aniston will finally receive the love and recognition she so desperately deserves. Statues will be built. Shrines. Maybe entire basilicas. And the people, in a collective voice that will shake the very foundation of Heaven, will shout, thank God for Jennifer Aniston!

Or, more likely, she will be forgotten. A footnote in history. Forever remembered as a second-rate sitcom actress that was once married to the husband of Angelina Jolie.

Poor Jennifer.

February 7th, 2010 by Hoopleton

Waist deep in the muck and thouroughly without conscious. Manipulative bastards every mouth breathing abuser one of you. Men? I see none. Little better than animals we’d say and we’d be right as death.

I see the leather belt straps taut round your fists. That cruel, hungry glaze over your eyes. I know you mean to murder us. Catch us asleep and rob us of our dreams. Force your violence on us. But we have sharp knives and a memory that stretches back to before creation. We have the knowledge of God. The strength of Titans. The perpetuity of righteousness.

It’s when you think you’ve won that we’ll cleanse the Earth of all your sin. We’ll raise armies to crusify you. We’ll hang your bodies in the town squares and in the food courts of shopping malls, we’ll make rag dolls of them. Purification through torture, just as you taught us. We’ve been keeping notes.

And when you’re all long gone from this world we’ll pick up the pieces and rebuild. Large towering structures that scrape the sky. We’ll immortalize your viciousness in memorials and cannonize your victims. We’ll teach our children to speak your names with shame, but also to stand proudly over the fragments of bone you left. None will venerate you. You will remain for all time despised, forsworn, reviled.

This I promise you. By the green of the spring, this I promise you.

February 5th, 2010 by Hoopleton

Yes, then always as before, as the rain, as the snow. We live in a strange world you and I. Perpetual winter in the flat of the lakes and upon that a perennial sheet of clouds. Further up I imagine there are stars. Pushing further entire clusters. Galaxies. Eternity just a bit out.

It all started out like this.

The various fragments were arranged. Rules were drawn. Computations made. Projections forecast. Plans agreed to, huzzahs exchanged. Somewhere in the deep dark bowels of the universe someone laughed.

It didn’t take long for it all to fall apart. And my precious allmighty God was it spectacular.

What are you doing standing in the rain, darling? You asked me.

Missing you, always. I replied.

I’m right here, you can come closer, you can hold me now.

In a minute, for now I’d just like to stand here and take you in.

Here it begins again anew.

Out of stagnation. Decomposition. Putrification. Disection. Deconstruction. Into rebirth. Growth. Cultivation. Prolifiration. Transgeneration.

It’s as it should be. Chaotic. Formless. Perfect. You and I braced against the endless winter. No projections. No plans. Fixed only as a dotted line upon the map with mile upon mile ahead of us. Eternity just a bit out.