The prank of holding two fingers behind someone’s head as their picture is being taken is a reference to cuckold’s horns. Americans know the prank as “bunny ears,” but in other cultures it means you’re wife is cheating on you.
Out of the belly of Christopher’s ship
a mob burts
Running in all directions
Pulling furs off animals
Shooting each other
Pioneers and traders
and rice krispies
Civilization has reached
the promised land.
Jeanette Armstrong: History Lesson
-Thomas King: The Inconvenient Indian
As the self shatters aren’t there still glimmers of light? Breaking the bonds frees us from the weight of the pressure cooker. Breaking the mental block, the trick dick antagonism, frees us from the limits of control, delivers us new leases and carefree bungalows.
If my imagining of myself gets to a ruinous state or diminishes to a withered husk destitute and dry as Arabian sands, will I quiver and give in to that urge to shelter and roll up into hedgehog defenses? Doth the flattered ego make the man or man maketh himself? My perception of me, the evolving, expanding contracting idea of meness is rife with fragility but seeking transformation; the dueling fates rise anew amid stank mutilated piles of dessicated and perforated bodies.
History is fickle but time does like to march on, leaving tasseled centerpieces looking forlorn strewn about auburn carpets losing warmth. Time is cold, methinks calculating but really it’s impersonal, lusciously ambivalent in the throes of its wake. Here we stand crestfallen, locked up, stocked up, liquored up, dixie cup. What do we show but lethal weapon bruises and regrets. Fun times blurry but still there, a picture with your personal watermark. Our stories are unfolding and yet we cling and crave for remembrance, glory hallelujah glory, praise jebus.
There have been plenty who want to go down in history, the common man and woman asks for meaning, relevance, a google hit when time comes for them, the pride speaks after the burial. Is any of that meaningful, will you really care after you depart this reality? If there is any existence beyond the pale. I have felt death before, or something akin to it and I saw the nothingness, no neverending story in my book of the dead. May be our beliefs taint our deep sleep to portray the other world as we envisioned it beforehand. What I know is I don’t know and I have come to truly accept that and kind of like it. Though my existential searchitude is unending I sail along without set destinations. Peace is letting go of self-inflicted burdens.
What more is there to say. When does the fire within get extinguished, when are the suffocating words expunged from my bikini bottom? A pineapple express mutes the interview. Neon lights blaring open in a little diner inside me fretful of busy workaday customers afraid to look at each other. Newspapers and cellys grab attention centres. Peering peers just glass tigers reflecting same feelings. Want and loneliness a glittering shield covering all, all us shattered selves glimmering bravely.
“According to Dr. Rivière, the central problem was that noxious gases emanate from a piling up of the female’s unspent “seed.” Like fuliginous tentacles with the worst of intentions, these fumes would then creep up from her midsection and into her nervous system, where they’d interfere with her ability to think clearly. Even a normally pious and reserved woman could go insane with passion this way”
Perv: The Sexual Deviant in all of us