UNDERGROUND VOICES: FICTION

M. BLAKE

Craziness

         Craziness has crippled him over the years, got him so down so that he found comfort on the ground, keeping it simple, outdoors, in the pure air. Nothing so solid as his little space in hell where he

Otto Dix
could ooze his poisons in private, away from the prying eyes he does despise, possessed by his own voices, his own show (for wasn’t that always the most interesting?). It has kept him in the bush and lying low with the criminals, the outlaws, the crazies, the misfits, the philosophers and poets, and all of them part of him, too, yes he could never jettison any of those personalities, all those characters he carried around in his backpack. The many voices, the memories that blurred with fantasy, the nightmares, the noise, and with no cross to put up against the monsters, nothing but his hurt, intoxicated, naked, crazy soul, the only thing in stock, the only thing that hadn’t been stripped away over the years, that boiling brew inside that he could only soar so high with, brief stoned flights before disturbances brought him down to the painful again (the anchor of his own hell). Yes, he could love the madness for delicious moments, but he couldn’t ignore the scars and fresh wounds, he couldn’t forget how it sometimes raked his mind with torment, until he said “I give” with a frustrated laugh, he relinquished all seriousness, knowing he was helplessly adrift. What was there to hang on to?

         It seemed a case of just putting in the time, for nothing better to do, a mechanical man on the move, left right, left right, doing what the bosses told him, yet avoiding authority whenever possible. For just the word authority in connection with someone or other made him laugh. And there were plenty of fools who thought they wore it like a set of clothes. It was best to stay away from them, forget them, better still. He had never had any inclination to play that game. He wasn’t one for playing games, but sometimes got pulled into undesired connections, found himself participating, though detesting the part he played. Yes, the involvement, for the most part, didn’t even reward the artist; he felt sickened by the banal, a queasiness that could ruin whole days. And always adrift when not reined in by the depression.

         He gave nothing but his smile these days – take it or leave it, for he had no answers. He had no suggestions. He couldn’t possibly convey in words the desolation he felt at times. How does he radiate enthusiasm for the pointless? How many times can he say that he feels up against a wall? Does he just slide it in with the small talk? Or isn’t it easier to just let chance encounters slide off of him, like water off the duck’s ass? Yes, he sees you, he hears something, but it never registers above the voices in his own head. It is an ongoing soundtrack in there, and it won’t cease until the old seeker goes cold.








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