If you belong to a social network you have likely seen tag-requests, a post with a list of things with a paragraph or two in which you are named and invited to create a similar list. The tag-requests float through the sites like chain letters.
A while back, quite awhile back in fact, a poet I read, Melfamy Melfamy tagged me with a tag-request.
Normally, I do not respond to chain letters, digital or otherwise, but I enjoy Melfamy’s poetry. I read but seldom make comment praising his work. Hoping to atone for not providing deserved, encouraging feedback, I decided to respond to his tag-request.
The tag-request urged me to write seven things about myself and chain the tag to seven friends. Following you can read my attempt at first half of the request. I fear I cannot fulfill the second half. I do not have seven friends I feel comfortable chaining to.
I found the first half challenging enough. I and other alter-egos were not raised to discuss ourownselves. My initial attempt to publicly expose seven personal tidbits took, as you can see, a weird twist or three in short order.
In truth, you really only need to know one thing about me. Like Dionysus, I was not born but erupted from a thought filled forehead.
Unlike Dionysus, I do not attract singing swarms of swirling, twirling women who, overwhelmed by my presence, offer themselves to goatish paramours and in throes of ecstatic bliss, scratch loyal, human lovers to bits.
Additionally, unlike Dionysus, the forehead from which I sprang belonged not to Zeus but to a hick farm kid known to local women as somewhat tall and somewhat gentle with strange eyes and equipment falling well within the measurement of normal. (1)
In the wee hours before dawn, from beyond the silvered glass called mirror, I peek at this curiosity from which I sprang and whisper to him he must watch his weight (2) … as if one could miss it.
In passing decades since first I looked out from behind his eyes. I’ve watched his beard, beneath which he hides a slightly weak chin, become more salt than pepper. (3) A result of long-term exposure to corporate, florescent panel lighting, blonde, tastefully groomed to social expectations, hair dulled to cubicle beige. When he escaped at last, sunlight, open skies, age and wisdom brightened beige not to expected Danish gold but to the cumulus white of childhood. (4).
I sense from my place behind his eyes the number of his days and from them know the number of my days (being a voice for inner dialogue, his days are my days), and the measure of my universe. He passed beyond life once while we, his voices watched helplessly. We, that is he, tasted utter nothingness beyond ego and language. Reluctantly dragged by medical hands back to the living light, he never forgets that neither he nor I nor our universe can survive. (5)
He suffers a peasant attitude; his personal albatross; limiter of life and opportunity; an artifact found in the luggage of immigrants and passed down, father to daughter, mother to son. From first wail he learned the Great things in life, opportunities that knock, deeds of knights and kings, lovers from outside the village and world changing ideas, “Ain’t for us. We don’t do that. Look around. Those things, other people do ’em. Be happy with what you got and get back to work.” (6)
He grokked dysfunctional speakers, parent, teacher and preacher, accepted peasant obligations with blind obedience but without joy and happiness. They pretended and promised, one of the obligations they accepted, but without genuine joy and happiness.
His awareness that neurological poison tarnishes synaptic paths and pollutes subconscious whims and desires does not provide antidote. Knowing does not undo damage. Imprints etched in the virgin panels of his undefended, infant mind solidified in time.
Rewriting ancient imprints and life-games requires therapy and psychedelic excursions; remedies ironically belonging to the list of things that “… are not for us … ” (7)
One or three things about me and seven more concerning the owner of the forehead from which I jumped.
This exercise produced a few stories, memories adopted to the non-confrontational Zeitgeist of the twenty-first century, post-post-modern spiral toward the neo-Dark Ages. Should I overcome inherent laziness, perhaps, before February brings the false thaw, I can share those as well.
© 2012 Chrome Poet