Phoenix Rises's Blog, page 13
January 3, 2016
Free eBook for Silent Noise!
The Kindle version of my book Silent Noise will be free for the next few days. Get your copy here: http://www.amazon.com/Silent-Noise-Ph...
It also features an excerpt from my autofiction The Street Kid!
It also features an excerpt from my autofiction The Street Kid!
December 30, 2015
Secular Metaphysics from Silent Noise
I thought I would share an excerpt from my first published book, Silent Noise. This is the second chapter. If you like what you read, you can download a free sample on the Goodreads page, and find the book here: http://www.amazon.com/Silent-Noise-Ph...
I’ve been on my own for about a day now. By now, as you can imagine, the feeling from church has indeed faded. But that’s honestly okay with me. My inspiration is still there. I’m not going to lose that inspiration. Inspiration is my life force, my life source, and without that, I would be nothing.
No one has stopped for me so far. I’m guessing it’s because they don’t speak my language. A lot of people look at me confused, when I start signing to them, asking if they want to hear some poetry. The rest, when I write down on paper what I’d like to do for them, just look disinterested (and not in a Matthew Arnold sort of way). My spiritual calling has faded a little, because, while I’m not discouraged, per se, I’m still not sure if this is the right thing for me. People don’t really understand what it is I’m trying to do.
But that’s when I begin to think about poetry in a secular way. I begin to ask the tough questions. How do we know when we’ve penetrated beauty? And not just beauty, but Beauty? How do we know that what we’ve touched is the Real Thing? Plato says we can apprehend these Forms with thought, but I have to admit, what I like about theological metaphysics in the vein of Aquinas is the idea that God is the actual Form, because then you have your Perfect Being, your Perfect Source.
I don’t like it completely, though. Not because I’m ambivalent towards believing in God, because I’m really not. It’s just that I like the points that Plato brings up. They are indeed secular, but I like his idea that we can just reminisce and understand higher concepts like Beauty and Love and Truth.
That’s why I like poetry, though. I think I really agree with Sir Philip Sidney’s claim that poetry gets closer to Plato’s Forms than any other form out there. History is fascinating, yes, and so is philosophy, but poetry can break so many rules, simply by letting its language penetrate into deep and deeper spaces. Though I of course am not so sure I like him calling the Medieval times the “misty times.” That’s a little too derogatory and deprecatory for me.
I’m in a minor city, and the cars are driving by casually. It’s not too busy now. I continue to walk, and that’s when I see someone else, walking on the streets.
They are wearing all white, the person, and they are a kid at least five years older than me. However, I can’t help but wonder if they might want to listen to my poetry.
I approach the kid, and begin to sign.
Did you want to hear a poem?
The kid looks confused for a moment. Then he signs, Can you repeat your question?
Do you want to hear a poem? I sign, feeling excited that he speaks my language at least. He could not listen to my poem and I’d be happy that he at least speaks my language, and spoke it for a moment. I hadn’t realized how lonely I was getting. My question was poetry, anyway, and in that way, I still got to share with him.
The kid thinks about this, then signs, I don’t like poetry.
I’m a little taken aback by this, but not because I’m surprised by the claim: tons of people have said they don’t like poetry. Poetry is often considered an elite form of art, and thus inferior, and people already don’t like art, so why would they like an elite form of art? It’s just because I have a feeling that this kid is going to go into a deep and philosophical diatribe against poetry, though I can’t explain why I think that.
I feel like he’s going to attack poetry, the way Plato does.
And that’s exactly what he does, when he sees I’m silent: It’s the basic theory of Mimesis.
Mimetics are synthetics, I sign, smiling to try and catch my anti-poet and opponent off guard a little.
Mimesis is more real than poetry, the kid signs. I don’t like poetry for the reasons that Plato mentions, and more.
I wonder if I want to hear this attack on poetry. I know the whole theory of Mimesis. Poetry is a copy of reality, a mere imitation, the reality of which is merely a copy of Plato’s Forms, of things that are better than the copy below. Thus, making poetry that much more fake. I know he thinks poetry is bad for people, because it makes them bad people, because they start to get their heads in clouds.
And in fact, this is exactly what the kid signs. I can tell he’s studied Plato carefully, though, because he brings up other points I wouldn’t have considered, ranging from many different texts.
But why would he attack the poor poets? I sign. The way he attacks that poor bard. Why does Plato have to hate on a whole group of people? Poets can indeed attack philosophy just as much as philosophers can attack poetry. We have the language, obviously.
You have to attack what you have an antipathy toward, the kid says through sign. And not only that, but I agree: poetry can be very dangerous.
Yeah, because everyone wants to go on a killing spree the moment they read Emily Dickinson.
The kid takes my point, and smiles again. Well, even a poet like Emily Dickinson. No, maybe they won’t get all sociopathic all the sudden, but they might start to get obsessed with death and lock themselves in their room all day, which of course could never be healthy.
I smile, and then sign, I can attack philosophy just as much as you attack poetry. Don’t forget that.
Go for it, the kid urges me.
Well, philosophy is boring. It refuses to use language for the purpose of exciting wonder and beauty and even experimentation. There are some exceptions, like Jacques Derrida of course, but philosophy tries to be precise with its language, to have its precise definitions and precise concepts, to the point to where philosophy tries to become math. And we all know math is boring.
Hey, I like math, the kid signs. Besides, that’s another thing I don’t like about poetry. It’s useless. All you have are words on the page, while with philosophy, you have reason—which we can’t live without—and with math, you have precision, and you have proof.
I think Oscar Wilde would agree with you there, I sign back, almost enthusiastically because he’s fallen into a trap. Oscar Wilde thinks that art is useless. But that’s what he likes about it. He also likes that art tells lies, particularly poetry. We know Plato hates it, but Plato wasn’t a poet. Oscar Wilde was, though, and we don’t see Oscar Wilde’s beautiful poetry corrupting our youth.
Only because there haven’t been any scientific studies, the kid signs bitterly, but he’s lightened up some. Okay, okay. I see your point. Poetry can ride the line between fiction and reality, and to cool effects, while philosophy just has to be a boring straight-up attempt to get to truth. Okay, kid. I see your point. What’s your name by the way?
Micah, I sign.
I go by Socrates, even though I’m not, obviously. It’s a nickname.
We shake hands, and then continue our debate.
You say Plato isn’t a poet, right? says Socrates.
Yeah, I sign, wondering if I’m about to fall prey to the Socratic Method.
Well, I don’t know if I agree. Poets are trying to penetrate into the depths of illuminating concepts like Beauty and Truth.
Because beauty is truth, and truth beauty, I sign.
Yes, yes, Keats … I know that quotation. But my point is, what if philosophers actually get closer to Plato’s Forms than any mere poet, simply because they are apprehending things in a way that no one else can?
Well, there is considerable debate about Plato’s method of attacking poetry. He uses dialogue, which makes his attempt, his attack, look more artsy, and thus ironically and unwittingly encouraging one to be creative in the arts. But what you’re saying I reject completely, on the premises that that is what philosophy is supposed to do … and yet, has it? I hate to go all Postmodern on you, but have philosophers ever agreed with you, that because we’ve used philosophy, we’ve apprehended Forms? And yet you talk to a poet, and they have more confidence in their art, because everything they’ve done is so freeing and artistic, rather than cerebral and logical. How are those not Forms? I kind of stand by Hume, when he talks about the disagreements through time of reason but the more constant opinions of taste show that people seem to know what they like in art and agree on that more than they do points in philosophy and arguments, in rigid argumentation.
Aestheticism is overrated, signs Socrates, and I can tell that he’s at a loss for a moment. His words are simply a catch-all, because I’ve caught him in a trap. So why do you think that poetry is useful, or at least in tapping into the metaphysics of existence?
I think of a poem I’d written in the past, and then sign that poem:
The metaphysical is metapoetical,
the metapoetical metaphysical.
When you tap into this metaspace
it’s really rather kind of cool.
I know it’s not a great poem, but this snippet captures the anxiety of what we’re talking about and been talking about.
So you think poetry allows you to penetrate Plato’s Forms because metaphysics is the same as poetry? Socrates asks.
I nod. I think that’s exactly why. I think metaphysics and poetry are the same thing, just their function changes. Philosophy becomes about precision of thought and reason, while poetry becomes about precision of language, in a general scheme of things. But you’ve got writers like Heidegger who use poetry all the time in their philosophy, using everything from word play to simply beautiful language, and who is to say that their philosophy isn’t poetry, and vice versa?
The poetic is the abstract,
the abstract the poetic.
When you finally realize that,
everything seems to tick.
Socrates looks at me carefully, and then smiles cautiously. I can see your point, he signs. It is true, how much the two intersect without us realizing that. That’s why I like the Continental philosophers. I appreciate analytical philosophers, of course, but Continental philosophers are good at using language to prove their points, much the way a poet does.
My point exactly, I sign. It’s amazing how similar philosophy and poetry are. Plato was trying to break that barrier, but if you’ve ever read Lucian, you know that people can be just as skeptical of philosophy as they can of poetry … and Lucian was a philosopher!
Well Lucian was a satirist and iconoclast, so he was going to attack anything and everything, Socrates says. But okay. I see your point. I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt.
We don’t say anything for a moment, but then my friend signs, So … do you mind sharing more poetry? I’d like to hear something abstract, something that challenges the mind like philosophy, but something that tries to tap into Plato’s Forms. I want to see if Sidney was even close to being right.
Yeah, I don’t mind, I sign, and go into my poem:
Beauty falls like a pine needle to the pining forest floor,
the moments slipping by smoothly like rain droplets,
the hiss of the snake in the garden of the Fall
sounding the alarm of our waking days.
Everything is beautiful when contrasted
in dark illumination.
I see the days become a blur
as the moon becomes a haze on the horizon,
a smudge of reason.
It all dances with the subtle grace of forms unbounded,
of truth unseen, yet felt.
The poet takes his pen to compose these lines,
but the paper begins to fade beneath him.
None of it is real …
and yet, he feels it all.
He feels it,
as he touches the divine metaphysics
of a universe busily contemplating itself.
That’s beautiful, my friend signs, after some silence.
I have to admit, this has been a rather enjoyable conversation. I was able to brainwash a philosopher into thinking poetry was the finest thing since sliced bread.
Nah, just kidding. But I honestly thought I was going to lose the debate, when he started bringing in Mimesis. The Mimetic stance is hard to argue against, because, in my opinion, it’s hard to argue against such heated rationality. But that’s what’s cool, I think: people will always be poets, or they will always be philosophers, or in some cases, will always be both.
I’m wondering if I should even become a philosopher …
No, just kidding. But still. It’s cool. The metaphysics of poetry, the poetry of metaphysics.
Even if just a tad bit secular. Maybe poetry is how we find God, or as close as we can get to God.
Maybe that’s what Plato meant.
I’ve been on my own for about a day now. By now, as you can imagine, the feeling from church has indeed faded. But that’s honestly okay with me. My inspiration is still there. I’m not going to lose that inspiration. Inspiration is my life force, my life source, and without that, I would be nothing.
No one has stopped for me so far. I’m guessing it’s because they don’t speak my language. A lot of people look at me confused, when I start signing to them, asking if they want to hear some poetry. The rest, when I write down on paper what I’d like to do for them, just look disinterested (and not in a Matthew Arnold sort of way). My spiritual calling has faded a little, because, while I’m not discouraged, per se, I’m still not sure if this is the right thing for me. People don’t really understand what it is I’m trying to do.
But that’s when I begin to think about poetry in a secular way. I begin to ask the tough questions. How do we know when we’ve penetrated beauty? And not just beauty, but Beauty? How do we know that what we’ve touched is the Real Thing? Plato says we can apprehend these Forms with thought, but I have to admit, what I like about theological metaphysics in the vein of Aquinas is the idea that God is the actual Form, because then you have your Perfect Being, your Perfect Source.
I don’t like it completely, though. Not because I’m ambivalent towards believing in God, because I’m really not. It’s just that I like the points that Plato brings up. They are indeed secular, but I like his idea that we can just reminisce and understand higher concepts like Beauty and Love and Truth.
That’s why I like poetry, though. I think I really agree with Sir Philip Sidney’s claim that poetry gets closer to Plato’s Forms than any other form out there. History is fascinating, yes, and so is philosophy, but poetry can break so many rules, simply by letting its language penetrate into deep and deeper spaces. Though I of course am not so sure I like him calling the Medieval times the “misty times.” That’s a little too derogatory and deprecatory for me.
I’m in a minor city, and the cars are driving by casually. It’s not too busy now. I continue to walk, and that’s when I see someone else, walking on the streets.
They are wearing all white, the person, and they are a kid at least five years older than me. However, I can’t help but wonder if they might want to listen to my poetry.
I approach the kid, and begin to sign.
Did you want to hear a poem?
The kid looks confused for a moment. Then he signs, Can you repeat your question?
Do you want to hear a poem? I sign, feeling excited that he speaks my language at least. He could not listen to my poem and I’d be happy that he at least speaks my language, and spoke it for a moment. I hadn’t realized how lonely I was getting. My question was poetry, anyway, and in that way, I still got to share with him.
The kid thinks about this, then signs, I don’t like poetry.
I’m a little taken aback by this, but not because I’m surprised by the claim: tons of people have said they don’t like poetry. Poetry is often considered an elite form of art, and thus inferior, and people already don’t like art, so why would they like an elite form of art? It’s just because I have a feeling that this kid is going to go into a deep and philosophical diatribe against poetry, though I can’t explain why I think that.
I feel like he’s going to attack poetry, the way Plato does.
And that’s exactly what he does, when he sees I’m silent: It’s the basic theory of Mimesis.
Mimetics are synthetics, I sign, smiling to try and catch my anti-poet and opponent off guard a little.
Mimesis is more real than poetry, the kid signs. I don’t like poetry for the reasons that Plato mentions, and more.
I wonder if I want to hear this attack on poetry. I know the whole theory of Mimesis. Poetry is a copy of reality, a mere imitation, the reality of which is merely a copy of Plato’s Forms, of things that are better than the copy below. Thus, making poetry that much more fake. I know he thinks poetry is bad for people, because it makes them bad people, because they start to get their heads in clouds.
And in fact, this is exactly what the kid signs. I can tell he’s studied Plato carefully, though, because he brings up other points I wouldn’t have considered, ranging from many different texts.
But why would he attack the poor poets? I sign. The way he attacks that poor bard. Why does Plato have to hate on a whole group of people? Poets can indeed attack philosophy just as much as philosophers can attack poetry. We have the language, obviously.
You have to attack what you have an antipathy toward, the kid says through sign. And not only that, but I agree: poetry can be very dangerous.
Yeah, because everyone wants to go on a killing spree the moment they read Emily Dickinson.
The kid takes my point, and smiles again. Well, even a poet like Emily Dickinson. No, maybe they won’t get all sociopathic all the sudden, but they might start to get obsessed with death and lock themselves in their room all day, which of course could never be healthy.
I smile, and then sign, I can attack philosophy just as much as you attack poetry. Don’t forget that.
Go for it, the kid urges me.
Well, philosophy is boring. It refuses to use language for the purpose of exciting wonder and beauty and even experimentation. There are some exceptions, like Jacques Derrida of course, but philosophy tries to be precise with its language, to have its precise definitions and precise concepts, to the point to where philosophy tries to become math. And we all know math is boring.
Hey, I like math, the kid signs. Besides, that’s another thing I don’t like about poetry. It’s useless. All you have are words on the page, while with philosophy, you have reason—which we can’t live without—and with math, you have precision, and you have proof.
I think Oscar Wilde would agree with you there, I sign back, almost enthusiastically because he’s fallen into a trap. Oscar Wilde thinks that art is useless. But that’s what he likes about it. He also likes that art tells lies, particularly poetry. We know Plato hates it, but Plato wasn’t a poet. Oscar Wilde was, though, and we don’t see Oscar Wilde’s beautiful poetry corrupting our youth.
Only because there haven’t been any scientific studies, the kid signs bitterly, but he’s lightened up some. Okay, okay. I see your point. Poetry can ride the line between fiction and reality, and to cool effects, while philosophy just has to be a boring straight-up attempt to get to truth. Okay, kid. I see your point. What’s your name by the way?
Micah, I sign.
I go by Socrates, even though I’m not, obviously. It’s a nickname.
We shake hands, and then continue our debate.
You say Plato isn’t a poet, right? says Socrates.
Yeah, I sign, wondering if I’m about to fall prey to the Socratic Method.
Well, I don’t know if I agree. Poets are trying to penetrate into the depths of illuminating concepts like Beauty and Truth.
Because beauty is truth, and truth beauty, I sign.
Yes, yes, Keats … I know that quotation. But my point is, what if philosophers actually get closer to Plato’s Forms than any mere poet, simply because they are apprehending things in a way that no one else can?
Well, there is considerable debate about Plato’s method of attacking poetry. He uses dialogue, which makes his attempt, his attack, look more artsy, and thus ironically and unwittingly encouraging one to be creative in the arts. But what you’re saying I reject completely, on the premises that that is what philosophy is supposed to do … and yet, has it? I hate to go all Postmodern on you, but have philosophers ever agreed with you, that because we’ve used philosophy, we’ve apprehended Forms? And yet you talk to a poet, and they have more confidence in their art, because everything they’ve done is so freeing and artistic, rather than cerebral and logical. How are those not Forms? I kind of stand by Hume, when he talks about the disagreements through time of reason but the more constant opinions of taste show that people seem to know what they like in art and agree on that more than they do points in philosophy and arguments, in rigid argumentation.
Aestheticism is overrated, signs Socrates, and I can tell that he’s at a loss for a moment. His words are simply a catch-all, because I’ve caught him in a trap. So why do you think that poetry is useful, or at least in tapping into the metaphysics of existence?
I think of a poem I’d written in the past, and then sign that poem:
The metaphysical is metapoetical,
the metapoetical metaphysical.
When you tap into this metaspace
it’s really rather kind of cool.
I know it’s not a great poem, but this snippet captures the anxiety of what we’re talking about and been talking about.
So you think poetry allows you to penetrate Plato’s Forms because metaphysics is the same as poetry? Socrates asks.
I nod. I think that’s exactly why. I think metaphysics and poetry are the same thing, just their function changes. Philosophy becomes about precision of thought and reason, while poetry becomes about precision of language, in a general scheme of things. But you’ve got writers like Heidegger who use poetry all the time in their philosophy, using everything from word play to simply beautiful language, and who is to say that their philosophy isn’t poetry, and vice versa?
The poetic is the abstract,
the abstract the poetic.
When you finally realize that,
everything seems to tick.
Socrates looks at me carefully, and then smiles cautiously. I can see your point, he signs. It is true, how much the two intersect without us realizing that. That’s why I like the Continental philosophers. I appreciate analytical philosophers, of course, but Continental philosophers are good at using language to prove their points, much the way a poet does.
My point exactly, I sign. It’s amazing how similar philosophy and poetry are. Plato was trying to break that barrier, but if you’ve ever read Lucian, you know that people can be just as skeptical of philosophy as they can of poetry … and Lucian was a philosopher!
Well Lucian was a satirist and iconoclast, so he was going to attack anything and everything, Socrates says. But okay. I see your point. I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt.
We don’t say anything for a moment, but then my friend signs, So … do you mind sharing more poetry? I’d like to hear something abstract, something that challenges the mind like philosophy, but something that tries to tap into Plato’s Forms. I want to see if Sidney was even close to being right.
Yeah, I don’t mind, I sign, and go into my poem:
Beauty falls like a pine needle to the pining forest floor,
the moments slipping by smoothly like rain droplets,
the hiss of the snake in the garden of the Fall
sounding the alarm of our waking days.
Everything is beautiful when contrasted
in dark illumination.
I see the days become a blur
as the moon becomes a haze on the horizon,
a smudge of reason.
It all dances with the subtle grace of forms unbounded,
of truth unseen, yet felt.
The poet takes his pen to compose these lines,
but the paper begins to fade beneath him.
None of it is real …
and yet, he feels it all.
He feels it,
as he touches the divine metaphysics
of a universe busily contemplating itself.
That’s beautiful, my friend signs, after some silence.
I have to admit, this has been a rather enjoyable conversation. I was able to brainwash a philosopher into thinking poetry was the finest thing since sliced bread.
Nah, just kidding. But I honestly thought I was going to lose the debate, when he started bringing in Mimesis. The Mimetic stance is hard to argue against, because, in my opinion, it’s hard to argue against such heated rationality. But that’s what’s cool, I think: people will always be poets, or they will always be philosophers, or in some cases, will always be both.
I’m wondering if I should even become a philosopher …
No, just kidding. But still. It’s cool. The metaphysics of poetry, the poetry of metaphysics.
Even if just a tad bit secular. Maybe poetry is how we find God, or as close as we can get to God.
Maybe that’s what Plato meant.
December 23, 2015
A Scene with Maxwell from The Street Kid
I thought I would share an excerpt from my new book, The Street Kid. This one is a tender scene with Maxwell and Phoenix. I hope you enjoy! If you like what you read, you can find the book here: http://www.amazon.com/Street-Kid-Phoe...
(like
V
Maxwell realizing he can never make friends with the beasts)
Phoenix remembered one of his absolute favorite books ever, and it was a novel about a kid named Maxwell, who lived on an island surrounded by hostile beasts, who refused to cooperate with Maxwell, and Phoenix wished more than anything that he could meet him (to make up for the loss of Gavroche). However, it was highly unlikely. If Phoenix met Maxwell, it would be in his head, just as he had thought Gavroche was the real Gavroche from the classic nineteenth century novel, but was really only a kid who confused himself, a fictional character.
(Maxwell)
This was not the first time he’d thought about Maxwell, and the possibility of meeting him. However, this particular pang and curiosity was stronger than usual (as though something’s going to happen?), and Phoenix began to feel that he needed to meet the kid, and now, because the two were destined to become good friends, and …
(and be honest: it isn’t going to happen; you’re delusional; you’ve always been delusional) Phoenix saw that he was in a field of some sort, and didn’t even realize that he had long ago left the city he was at before. He sat down in the long grass, and put his chin on his hands, and sighed. It was hopeless. Why did he insist on believing that magic really existed in the world, when it was obvious that Phoenix was only crazy, lived in a world where the only reality was the opposite of what Phoenix wanted, or would have liked to see (no different from believing in a Maxwell character that doesn’t exist).
Phoenix debated falling asleep on this grass, but changed his mind. He needed to keep going. He stood up, and was about to continue walking through the field, when he heard something walking behind him.
“Don’t move,” came a voice.
Phoenix was tempted to put up his hands, but there was something overly playful and innocent about the voice. He was about to turn around when the voice said, “Don’t even think about it.” A pause. “Phoenix.”
(okay what is going on) Phoenix turned around, and standing in the grass, looking like a beast of nature, was a young eight or nine-year-old. He wore a shirt, pants, and shoes that were entirely gray (like a wolf), and he had shaggy, mangy, dirt-colored hair, with flecks of silver. His face was also face-painted (war paint?), painted gray, with black streaks on the cheeks (whiskers).
“I told you not to move,” the kid said despondently, and then, to Phoenix’s surprise, began to growl: a low (playful?), sonically appealing, growl, like Phoenix had just made a puppy angry.
The kid began to hunch over, putting out his hands (claws?), and Phoenix realized that he was smiling crazily (dear God I just met Maxwell). What the freak was happening? Phoenix thinking of Maxwell, and then he meets someone just like him …
The kid charged toward Phoenix, and knocked Phoenix down on the ground, ruffling his hair. Phoenix imagined that the roles needed to be reversed: usually, older kids or people ruffled the younger kid’s hair, of course as a sign of affection. However, this kid felt exactly the opposite, and continued to make Phoenix’s hair all ruffled, all messed up, grungy, and Phoenix realized that he was laughing now, as the young kid continued to torment Phoenix.
The kid finally backed away from Phoenix, who was laughing like this was the best joke in the world, and then the kid stood up straight, and said, “I do that to people I like.”
Phoenix, who couldn’t stop laughing, tears rolling down his eyes, finally managed to say, “No … no … I see where you’re coming from. You’re just about … having fun.”
The kid looked at Phoenix again, and then howled, and Phoenix began to laugh again, sure his belly was going to split open from all of the serious laughter.
However, Phoenix knew that all good things needed to come to an end (yeah right), and so he gently said, “Maxwell … you’re going to get yourself in trouble if you keep this up.”
Maxwell straightened up, his face lighting up with sudden seriousness, and said, “That’s what people want you to think, man.”
“I know … but what if they are right?”
Phoenix didn’t bother to wait for Maxwell’s response, because he already trusted the kid, and he didn’t need to say anything to get his point across. It just sort of … (happened?) came to be.
(Maxwell I can’t hide the way you make me feel)
Maxwell looked as though he was offended, his face-paint whiskers fading in the light of the sun. He said, “Phoenix … you shouldn’t have to run from your soul.”
“I know, but it’s hard. My soul … it’s defective.”
Maxwell suddenly became very solemn. Then he began to mock Phoenix lightly: “I’m Phoenix and I think I’m worthless.”
Phoenix smiled at this (you feel?). He wasn’t sure how to respond.
“You’re probably wondering what my life is like on the other end,” Maxwell said, “you know, me being Maxwell and all, from that novel you love so much.”
“Well … yeah. At the end of the novel, you realize that you have to run away from the beasts of the wilderness, because they are … hurting you.”
“I know, but that’s the thing … they create my niche. During the craziest moments, they make me happy, because I realize how screwed up I am. There’s something deceptively pleasant about becoming more yourself, about letting out the beast within you.”
(or the love?) Phoenix nodded his head at this. It made sense. So many times Phoenix had felt the same way (stop wasting time stop screwing around come on now Phoenix fly come on man FLY …), and if Phoenix was a real phoenix (I’m not it’s crazy) (and yet according to this kid beasts exist), then he had the ability to … (fly?)
(you’re being crazy you can’t talk crazy we all know where that leads)
But Maxwell was resilient. He kept giving Phoenix a guilty look, one that made Phoenix feel as though (I’m defective? I’m a) (beast) … and Phoenix realized that he couldn’t keep hiding behind himself. He had to start letting his true emotions out, start letting out the fire, the heart of the fiery fury-laden Phoenix … (Arizona) …
The only thing was, Phoenix wasn’t sure how to do that. It sounded like a long shot, in every sense of the phrase. Phoenix saw how well it worked when Maxwell tried to be the beast, and got manipulated along the way, for whatever reason, and it was too much of a stretch, that Maxwell was such a good kid, because surely no one was that pure, but all he wanted to do was help, God, that was all he wanted to do (or should I say Bad Guy?), and Phoenix realized that he loved Maxwell, literally to death, and that he was going to lose his soul if he kept up these thoughts, because (I can’t love) … because Phoenix was as calloused (as flames?) as a bird of flame (Arizona).
(I don’t know who I am, Maxwell … can you help me figure that out? Can you be a calm force of security—)
“Phoenix,” Maxwell said.
Phoenix looked at Maxwell, realizing that, even though he was only eight or nine, he was the perfect height. Even though Phoenix was well into his teens, he still felt like he was at the same level of this kid … and it was beautiful.
“Phoenix … you’re crying.”
“I just see you suffer,” Phoenix said. “I see it, and … I hate it.”
Maxwell just smiled. “Niche, Phoenix. Niche. You gotta lighten up sometimes, you know, the grime and corruption of it all …”
Phoenix realized that he was going to burst out laughing again. However, he didn’t have the opportunity, because the moment that Maxwell said, “I need to show you I can take care of myself,” Phoenix watched as the scenery began to change. It had been a field that went on forever, but now it was a mountain of some sort (Mountain of Pain?) (no, not the Mountain of Pain, Phoenix, that ship has sailed). Phoenix literally believed that the two kids were going to be eaten if they stayed in this place, but Maxwell insisted that it would be okay, that Phoenix needed to have faith, and he needed to have it now, because this moment was extremely important, as beasts with flaming red eyes, like a cross between a werewolf and a human lion, leapt out of nowhere, and tackled Maxwell, all of them swarming around the innocent kid as though he could really take it, and Phoenix found himself screaming, what were these creatures doing, why were they torturing Maxwell, he hadn’t done anything …
And then Phoenix realized that the creatures were licking Maxwell. They would not stop, and their eyes … (are no longer red) ...
(these creatures will eat you if you don’t keep them tamed)
And yet, Phoenix felt that he had faith in Maxwell, because this kid was strong, and Phoenix’s love for Maxwell would not dissipate, no matter how much he tried to get it to fade, and (and I’m going crazy) it was so much more complicated than that, because these creatures literally were eating Maxwell, and Phoenix couldn’t go into the gruesome details because they were swallowing him whole, strange when considering there was more than one creature, but somehow, all of them were eating Maxwell whole, and Maxwell was screaming as all of this happened, and Phoenix realized he was screaming as well (because this is like
VI
watching a kid get shot).
(like
V
Maxwell realizing he can never make friends with the beasts)
Phoenix remembered one of his absolute favorite books ever, and it was a novel about a kid named Maxwell, who lived on an island surrounded by hostile beasts, who refused to cooperate with Maxwell, and Phoenix wished more than anything that he could meet him (to make up for the loss of Gavroche). However, it was highly unlikely. If Phoenix met Maxwell, it would be in his head, just as he had thought Gavroche was the real Gavroche from the classic nineteenth century novel, but was really only a kid who confused himself, a fictional character.
(Maxwell)
This was not the first time he’d thought about Maxwell, and the possibility of meeting him. However, this particular pang and curiosity was stronger than usual (as though something’s going to happen?), and Phoenix began to feel that he needed to meet the kid, and now, because the two were destined to become good friends, and …
(and be honest: it isn’t going to happen; you’re delusional; you’ve always been delusional) Phoenix saw that he was in a field of some sort, and didn’t even realize that he had long ago left the city he was at before. He sat down in the long grass, and put his chin on his hands, and sighed. It was hopeless. Why did he insist on believing that magic really existed in the world, when it was obvious that Phoenix was only crazy, lived in a world where the only reality was the opposite of what Phoenix wanted, or would have liked to see (no different from believing in a Maxwell character that doesn’t exist).
Phoenix debated falling asleep on this grass, but changed his mind. He needed to keep going. He stood up, and was about to continue walking through the field, when he heard something walking behind him.
“Don’t move,” came a voice.
Phoenix was tempted to put up his hands, but there was something overly playful and innocent about the voice. He was about to turn around when the voice said, “Don’t even think about it.” A pause. “Phoenix.”
(okay what is going on) Phoenix turned around, and standing in the grass, looking like a beast of nature, was a young eight or nine-year-old. He wore a shirt, pants, and shoes that were entirely gray (like a wolf), and he had shaggy, mangy, dirt-colored hair, with flecks of silver. His face was also face-painted (war paint?), painted gray, with black streaks on the cheeks (whiskers).
“I told you not to move,” the kid said despondently, and then, to Phoenix’s surprise, began to growl: a low (playful?), sonically appealing, growl, like Phoenix had just made a puppy angry.
The kid began to hunch over, putting out his hands (claws?), and Phoenix realized that he was smiling crazily (dear God I just met Maxwell). What the freak was happening? Phoenix thinking of Maxwell, and then he meets someone just like him …
The kid charged toward Phoenix, and knocked Phoenix down on the ground, ruffling his hair. Phoenix imagined that the roles needed to be reversed: usually, older kids or people ruffled the younger kid’s hair, of course as a sign of affection. However, this kid felt exactly the opposite, and continued to make Phoenix’s hair all ruffled, all messed up, grungy, and Phoenix realized that he was laughing now, as the young kid continued to torment Phoenix.
The kid finally backed away from Phoenix, who was laughing like this was the best joke in the world, and then the kid stood up straight, and said, “I do that to people I like.”
Phoenix, who couldn’t stop laughing, tears rolling down his eyes, finally managed to say, “No … no … I see where you’re coming from. You’re just about … having fun.”
The kid looked at Phoenix again, and then howled, and Phoenix began to laugh again, sure his belly was going to split open from all of the serious laughter.
However, Phoenix knew that all good things needed to come to an end (yeah right), and so he gently said, “Maxwell … you’re going to get yourself in trouble if you keep this up.”
Maxwell straightened up, his face lighting up with sudden seriousness, and said, “That’s what people want you to think, man.”
“I know … but what if they are right?”
Phoenix didn’t bother to wait for Maxwell’s response, because he already trusted the kid, and he didn’t need to say anything to get his point across. It just sort of … (happened?) came to be.
(Maxwell I can’t hide the way you make me feel)
Maxwell looked as though he was offended, his face-paint whiskers fading in the light of the sun. He said, “Phoenix … you shouldn’t have to run from your soul.”
“I know, but it’s hard. My soul … it’s defective.”
Maxwell suddenly became very solemn. Then he began to mock Phoenix lightly: “I’m Phoenix and I think I’m worthless.”
Phoenix smiled at this (you feel?). He wasn’t sure how to respond.
“You’re probably wondering what my life is like on the other end,” Maxwell said, “you know, me being Maxwell and all, from that novel you love so much.”
“Well … yeah. At the end of the novel, you realize that you have to run away from the beasts of the wilderness, because they are … hurting you.”
“I know, but that’s the thing … they create my niche. During the craziest moments, they make me happy, because I realize how screwed up I am. There’s something deceptively pleasant about becoming more yourself, about letting out the beast within you.”
(or the love?) Phoenix nodded his head at this. It made sense. So many times Phoenix had felt the same way (stop wasting time stop screwing around come on now Phoenix fly come on man FLY …), and if Phoenix was a real phoenix (I’m not it’s crazy) (and yet according to this kid beasts exist), then he had the ability to … (fly?)
(you’re being crazy you can’t talk crazy we all know where that leads)
But Maxwell was resilient. He kept giving Phoenix a guilty look, one that made Phoenix feel as though (I’m defective? I’m a) (beast) … and Phoenix realized that he couldn’t keep hiding behind himself. He had to start letting his true emotions out, start letting out the fire, the heart of the fiery fury-laden Phoenix … (Arizona) …
The only thing was, Phoenix wasn’t sure how to do that. It sounded like a long shot, in every sense of the phrase. Phoenix saw how well it worked when Maxwell tried to be the beast, and got manipulated along the way, for whatever reason, and it was too much of a stretch, that Maxwell was such a good kid, because surely no one was that pure, but all he wanted to do was help, God, that was all he wanted to do (or should I say Bad Guy?), and Phoenix realized that he loved Maxwell, literally to death, and that he was going to lose his soul if he kept up these thoughts, because (I can’t love) … because Phoenix was as calloused (as flames?) as a bird of flame (Arizona).
(I don’t know who I am, Maxwell … can you help me figure that out? Can you be a calm force of security—)
“Phoenix,” Maxwell said.
Phoenix looked at Maxwell, realizing that, even though he was only eight or nine, he was the perfect height. Even though Phoenix was well into his teens, he still felt like he was at the same level of this kid … and it was beautiful.
“Phoenix … you’re crying.”
“I just see you suffer,” Phoenix said. “I see it, and … I hate it.”
Maxwell just smiled. “Niche, Phoenix. Niche. You gotta lighten up sometimes, you know, the grime and corruption of it all …”
Phoenix realized that he was going to burst out laughing again. However, he didn’t have the opportunity, because the moment that Maxwell said, “I need to show you I can take care of myself,” Phoenix watched as the scenery began to change. It had been a field that went on forever, but now it was a mountain of some sort (Mountain of Pain?) (no, not the Mountain of Pain, Phoenix, that ship has sailed). Phoenix literally believed that the two kids were going to be eaten if they stayed in this place, but Maxwell insisted that it would be okay, that Phoenix needed to have faith, and he needed to have it now, because this moment was extremely important, as beasts with flaming red eyes, like a cross between a werewolf and a human lion, leapt out of nowhere, and tackled Maxwell, all of them swarming around the innocent kid as though he could really take it, and Phoenix found himself screaming, what were these creatures doing, why were they torturing Maxwell, he hadn’t done anything …
And then Phoenix realized that the creatures were licking Maxwell. They would not stop, and their eyes … (are no longer red) ...
(these creatures will eat you if you don’t keep them tamed)
And yet, Phoenix felt that he had faith in Maxwell, because this kid was strong, and Phoenix’s love for Maxwell would not dissipate, no matter how much he tried to get it to fade, and (and I’m going crazy) it was so much more complicated than that, because these creatures literally were eating Maxwell, and Phoenix couldn’t go into the gruesome details because they were swallowing him whole, strange when considering there was more than one creature, but somehow, all of them were eating Maxwell whole, and Maxwell was screaming as all of this happened, and Phoenix realized he was screaming as well (because this is like
VI
watching a kid get shot).
December 10, 2015
Opening Scene to The Street Kid
The opening scene of my new book, The Street Kid! If you like what you read, you can find the book here: http://www.amazon.com/Street-Kid-Phoe...
Enjoy!
I
(I want to die, is all I can think of. Death is the only sweet release. It is the only thing that feels right, the cold knife in the heart, it feels so right. It is the best direction. I'm trying not to believe this, but the world … it tells so much truth. What else am I supposed to do with that bitter truth? Be bitter myself, or keep whatever hope and sanity I still have within myself?
Except I don't want to be bitter. I don't want to have that kind of bitterness) Phoenix stood up out of bed, his head shaking, spinning elaborate webs of deceit and intrigue that he did not have time for right now. The Murderers. They were coming, right? Weren't they on their way? (I can't have bitterness. It destroys everything about me. But the Murderers… they are right. They have the answers. They know exactly what I should follow, and I need to follow that) Weren’t the Murderers closer than ever, now that Phoenix had begun to rise? Now that he had begun to question his death? His birth?
Phoenix stumbled back on the lip of his bed, shaking, his hands, his feet, his heart, they would not stop quivering, and he wasn't afraid, no, of course he wasn't afraid. He was only anticipating that things were changing. He was anticipating that he was rising. (They murdered me last night. They took what I wanted to do to myself and made it a reality. I hate myself for being such a coward, but they were right; except I don't believe this, because I need to escape them. I can't be like the Murderers. I can't) At least, he wanted to believe that he was rising.
His family betrayed him, because this was what they wanted out of him. They wanted him to leave. The long, painful goodbye, except without the goodbye. No closure? Of course not, not in this world.
Everything, so different. The world, gray, the world literally a walking corpse hungrily running after sunshine that would never come. (I see all of them, they are dead, they are so full of emptiness, don't they understand this about themselves, don't they understand that they are corpses, zombies, with no life? Don't they understand?)
Phoenix was crying. He couldn't stop himself, the tears flowing so smoothly, like blood out of a new wound.
He stood up, and held his chest and shoulders, seeking warmth that he wasn't going to find. He shakily opened the drawer and pulled out a T-shirt. (Today, I will go as myself.) A red T-shirt. A painful, happy nod to the reflection, staring back with the same apathy as everything in the world, as everyone in existence. A red T-shirt, with the word Arizona and Phoenix stitched across in dead letters. (But maybe there can be fire) He needed to go to Phoenix. Except, how was he supposed to get there? He could walk, but he couldn't leave his family behind. He loved them. He needed them with him.
(Your parents are dead.)
Phoenix was not sure what to do with this information. It was as though he had heard this information for the first time. No, his family loved him, they did not want him to suffer. They did not want him to die.
Still looking at the reflection. The face, so pale, brown ashen hair, the lips, chapped and cracked, so like his soul, and eyes, so red, the irises blazing a stained, pained, dead red. Like neon blood. Amazing that he wasn't bleeding right now, because (I have died) … death before birth.
(I died last night. The Murderers)
But there was no blood, there was no wound, only the invisible wound on his heart, the one that people always cared less to see. And it was understandable. That they ignored him.
But there was more to the equation. He always was happy, wasn't he? Wasn't he always happy?
(Today, I will go as myself)
Enjoy!
I
(I want to die, is all I can think of. Death is the only sweet release. It is the only thing that feels right, the cold knife in the heart, it feels so right. It is the best direction. I'm trying not to believe this, but the world … it tells so much truth. What else am I supposed to do with that bitter truth? Be bitter myself, or keep whatever hope and sanity I still have within myself?
Except I don't want to be bitter. I don't want to have that kind of bitterness) Phoenix stood up out of bed, his head shaking, spinning elaborate webs of deceit and intrigue that he did not have time for right now. The Murderers. They were coming, right? Weren't they on their way? (I can't have bitterness. It destroys everything about me. But the Murderers… they are right. They have the answers. They know exactly what I should follow, and I need to follow that) Weren’t the Murderers closer than ever, now that Phoenix had begun to rise? Now that he had begun to question his death? His birth?
Phoenix stumbled back on the lip of his bed, shaking, his hands, his feet, his heart, they would not stop quivering, and he wasn't afraid, no, of course he wasn't afraid. He was only anticipating that things were changing. He was anticipating that he was rising. (They murdered me last night. They took what I wanted to do to myself and made it a reality. I hate myself for being such a coward, but they were right; except I don't believe this, because I need to escape them. I can't be like the Murderers. I can't) At least, he wanted to believe that he was rising.
His family betrayed him, because this was what they wanted out of him. They wanted him to leave. The long, painful goodbye, except without the goodbye. No closure? Of course not, not in this world.
Everything, so different. The world, gray, the world literally a walking corpse hungrily running after sunshine that would never come. (I see all of them, they are dead, they are so full of emptiness, don't they understand this about themselves, don't they understand that they are corpses, zombies, with no life? Don't they understand?)
Phoenix was crying. He couldn't stop himself, the tears flowing so smoothly, like blood out of a new wound.
He stood up, and held his chest and shoulders, seeking warmth that he wasn't going to find. He shakily opened the drawer and pulled out a T-shirt. (Today, I will go as myself.) A red T-shirt. A painful, happy nod to the reflection, staring back with the same apathy as everything in the world, as everyone in existence. A red T-shirt, with the word Arizona and Phoenix stitched across in dead letters. (But maybe there can be fire) He needed to go to Phoenix. Except, how was he supposed to get there? He could walk, but he couldn't leave his family behind. He loved them. He needed them with him.
(Your parents are dead.)
Phoenix was not sure what to do with this information. It was as though he had heard this information for the first time. No, his family loved him, they did not want him to suffer. They did not want him to die.
Still looking at the reflection. The face, so pale, brown ashen hair, the lips, chapped and cracked, so like his soul, and eyes, so red, the irises blazing a stained, pained, dead red. Like neon blood. Amazing that he wasn't bleeding right now, because (I have died) … death before birth.
(I died last night. The Murderers)
But there was no blood, there was no wound, only the invisible wound on his heart, the one that people always cared less to see. And it was understandable. That they ignored him.
But there was more to the equation. He always was happy, wasn't he? Wasn't he always happy?
(Today, I will go as myself)
April 29, 2015
An Excerpt from The Street Kid
So. I’m super stoked to share a preview from my up-and-coming autofiction The Street Kid, which I hope to release some time early this summer.
I personally really dig this little part I’m going to share. It was, indeed, a real experience, filtered through my delusion, and filtered through a little bit of fiction, and structural and narrative invention (at one point I completely dispense of punctuation): But the thoughts, for the most part, I really experienced, and the events I also experienced as well.
In the excerpt, you’ll see Phoenix as a twenty-one-year-old in all of his confusion, neuroticism, psychological pain, enthusiasm, and passion; if I understand this part of my life/history correctly, what I see is a very vulnerable kid just a couple years out of teenage-hood, but with an explosive imagination and a free-spirited punk attitude, exemplified by such comments and attitudes as he’s in jail for “drugs,” when really, Phoenix is in jail because he is a schizoaffective that acted delusional (i.e. allowed himself to be strung out on his mind) and that could not be tolerated by a conservative public intent on status quo rationality.
So, you get rebellion, vulnerability, passion … but there’s also a little bit of innocence as well. Maxwell helps illustrate some of that innocence, but the innocence also comes from Phoenix and his naive understanding of the world and what his delusions mean for not just himself, but for the way he is going to be treated by people. This, I think, is the heart of this little excerpt, where indeed, Phoenix is jailed because he is so severely misunderstood by society. And in the experience of jail, via his delusion and mania and imagination and imaginary friends, Phoenix finds a way to escape and to turn the strange and alien experience of being in jail into an adventure.
That is the heart of The Street Kid, in general. Phoenix (meaning I) will not pretend that I see the world through rose-colored glasses: I see the world through intense pain and struggle. But there is also a ton of imagination and playfulness, so intense that it becomes delusion: And that is the magic of my condition, of my experience as a metaphorical street kid with a broken mind: Of, my experience as Phoenix.
Enjoy.
X
own good) Phoenix got out of the cop car with a hidden smile. Sure, this wasn’t what he had expected to happen today, as The Snake Angel was risking a lot by letting Phoenix get arrested, the game changed dramatically with these consequences, it meant The Snake Angel wasn’t completely powerful, and that was when he realized that The Lion Cub was keeping The Snake Angel in check, he knew that Phoenix was going to get arrested if The Snake Angel went insane, and because of that, it was all okay. Not all of it was in The Lion Cub’s control, but some of it was, enough to at least give Phoenix hope.
The Lion Cub brought Phoenix inside the jail building, set him down on a seat. Phoenix felt the handcuffs trying to suffocate his blood flow, imagined his hands falling off as the hand cuffs finally sliced through his wrists, but they were still there, his hands, Phoenix checked, and he wasn’t worried about it, at least he kept telling himself that.
“How come you’re here?” came a voice.
Phoenix turned to see who was looking at him, it was a kid Phoenix’s age. He looked friendly (maybe he’s a sun), and Phoenix smiled at him, said, “Drugs.”
“Drugs, huh?” the kid said.
Phoenix nodded.
“Could be worse, huh?” the kid laughed, and then shrugged.
Phoenix stayed on the cold bench for the longest time, but he was somehow all right. No, he really wasn’t, the more he stayed in this situation, the more he began to fear that it was out of control, the more he began to think that his friends had failed him, failed him huge, because they had allowed him to come here, although perhaps it was a strategy to keep The Bad Guy at bay, but whatever the reason, Phoenix felt uncomfortable, this was something that shouldn’t have ever happened, it was just too much, Phoenix couldn’t be in jail, even Samuel Callon didn’t get in jail ultimately was only held for a little bit before his parents came (you’re just in trouble Phoenix keep your cool), and Phoenix wasn’t sure if it was worth it, seeing Death himself and letting The Snake Angel scream through him, that hadn’t accomplished anything, had only scared innocent kids and gotten Phoenix arrested (they understood what you were doing don’t worry), and Phoenix wasn’t sure he was going to survive this jail.
(I can make it I love my friends I trust) Phoenix watched as a guard came to escort Phoenix toward the place where he could get the cuffs off. And Phoenix felt that they wanted to strip him, that they were going to do that right now, without Phoenix’s consent, because suddenly his shoes were off and they were touching him/searching him/whatever they called it, and Phoenix didn’t like the way it felt, with the guy saying, “And here comes the part you don’t like,” but that was when he saw his white-socked feet stand strong on the ground with the blue pants staying on with heaviness, and Phoenix understood that the spirit of Tyler and Skyler were keeping him safe, making sure that nothing happened to him here, Phoenix had protected Samuel Callon at one point and now he, including his kids, were keeping Phoenix where he needed to be: clothed.
They continued to push Phoenix along, and they took his picture. He was able to look at the picture and he saw that he was chewing the inside of his mouth (I’m confused though this isn’t supposed to happen I don’t understand where I’m at) and cursing The Black Queen cursing The Lion Cub The Snake Angel for being here and failing him letting him get on his way to being booked in jail it would be better to be booked in literature but oh well … and Phoenix realized that he was only moments away from shouting out in panic but only wasn’t because they continued to push him along to where they were now going to book him told him to put his fingers on the machine to get his fingerprints and identify him and get him in the system and they asked Phoenix what his name was and he told them to keep himself safe that it was Samuel Callon but they didn’t know a Samuel Callon and he realized that they managed to pull him up found out that his name was Phoenix with no last name because he was alone and unrelated even when he’d been with his parents he’d always been alone and unrelated and Phoenix didn’t like the way they pushed him toward a room for him to stand on his own and he felt sure that he was going to collapse but he was not alone somehow The Doctor was with him he felt The Doctor making sure that Phoenix stayed on his feet even though he felt sure that he was going to collapse any moment because he was still diseased didn’t these jail people know that but The Doctor had faith in Phoenix and kept him standing and then Phoenix was put in another room and this was when he realized that he needed to take his clothes off to send a message that it was his choice to lose his freedom and so he pulled his clothes off slowly saw that a camera was watching him and knew that the people in this sick jail were staring at him because they knew what really happened in jails corruption and rape and pedophilia which made sense as Phoenix was still a kid and they weren’t afraid to jail kids so Phoenix told himself that his alias was Samuel Callon right now for a reason because Samuel was going to keep him safe in trouble and he put his clothes back on after walking around for a while and he wished he knew where this was going desperately needed to know (something) and Phoenix told himself that he was going to remain calm because there was no other way he needed to make sure he kept his game in the head even though it was all so confusing why were his friends pushing him through this thing through this impossible test Phoenix didn’t belong in jail he belonged on the streets and they took him out of the room and put him inside another strange room which wasn’t quite a room but more like a small cube and they told Phoenix that he needed to change but Phoenix didn’t change so they put him back in the room he was in and Phoenix realized that somehow along the way they’d slipped him into jail clothes and he saw his real clothes shining on the wall outside waiting for him to get back inside them but that wasn’t going to happen Phoenix wasn’t going to get back his socks and pants and shirt it just wasn’t for him and then they took him into another place told him to be still because they were going to give him a shot for tuberculosis which didn’t make sense because Phoenix didn’t have tuberculosis and the guards were making fun of Phoenix mocking him making him even more confused and they gave him the shot after The Doctor said through Phoenix it doesn’t make sense does it and Phoenix only admitted that it didn’t make sense but he was forced to go through it anyway they were giving him a disease a sickness and he had to deal with it but he did deal with it Phoenix kept his head high because he wasn’t going to give up even though he felt on the bottom of hope right now in a place that he was never going to get out of at least not without seemingly perpetual struggle and next thing Phoenix knew he was moved into another room amazed that they had slipped the jail clothes on him and he knew that they were going to strip him eventually they were going to get their way partly because Phoenix did want to strip but only because the pressure was so strong only because The Snake Angel taught Phoenix not to be afraid of his own vulnerability his own nakedness and Phoenix was forced into a hall and then another hall and he kept going and Phoenix wanted to make the guards around him smile as they pushed him through a jail that had both white and blue all over it and Phoenix looked at his own clothes and saw that they were like Blitz he was wearing white socks like Blitz’s coat and he was wearing a blue jail uniform like Blitz’s eyes and Phoenix realized that he needed some childhood innocence in this stark serious situation so he thought of Maxwell and remembering all the times that Maxwell had almost gotten eaten all the times he’d gotten close to losing his life because of an angry beast and Phoenix realized that one of the guards was about to devour one of the other guards not literally of course but metaphorically metaphorically of which was real enough and Phoenix needed to stop so he used all of the concentration he could to undo what was about to happen and Phoenix put up his hand as though trying to stop something and said in front of all of the guards after the mind trick Phoenix/Tyson used stopped the one guard from eating the other guard metaphorically the metaphor of which was related to morality the guard was going to lose all of his morality and become a cold robot and Phoenix just said smiling and thinking of Maxwell standing up to his creatures you were going to devour him and leave nothing left not even a trace and suddenly all of the guards laughed like it was the best joke ever and Phoenix would have smiled but how did they know about Maxwell that was not their place not in the slightest they weren’t supposed to know about Maxwell because he needed to keep his innocence safe but they nonetheless knew and they carried Phoenix into a cell with Phoenix knowing soon stuff was going to happen even though he wasn’t sure what and Tyson was still with him and so was Maxwell in spirit and Phoenix wished more than anything that he wasn’t holding a card that had his picture on it because he didn’t want to look at himself he looked scared in the picture sure restraining the fear but it was there nonetheless and it made Phoenix wish that he could keep it elsewhere but The Snake Angel was still with Phoenix which was why the card was necessary and so he put it against the window of his cell with the picture facing outward and he looked out and he saw other cellmates watching television jail was not the place for Phoenix …
I personally really dig this little part I’m going to share. It was, indeed, a real experience, filtered through my delusion, and filtered through a little bit of fiction, and structural and narrative invention (at one point I completely dispense of punctuation): But the thoughts, for the most part, I really experienced, and the events I also experienced as well.
In the excerpt, you’ll see Phoenix as a twenty-one-year-old in all of his confusion, neuroticism, psychological pain, enthusiasm, and passion; if I understand this part of my life/history correctly, what I see is a very vulnerable kid just a couple years out of teenage-hood, but with an explosive imagination and a free-spirited punk attitude, exemplified by such comments and attitudes as he’s in jail for “drugs,” when really, Phoenix is in jail because he is a schizoaffective that acted delusional (i.e. allowed himself to be strung out on his mind) and that could not be tolerated by a conservative public intent on status quo rationality.
So, you get rebellion, vulnerability, passion … but there’s also a little bit of innocence as well. Maxwell helps illustrate some of that innocence, but the innocence also comes from Phoenix and his naive understanding of the world and what his delusions mean for not just himself, but for the way he is going to be treated by people. This, I think, is the heart of this little excerpt, where indeed, Phoenix is jailed because he is so severely misunderstood by society. And in the experience of jail, via his delusion and mania and imagination and imaginary friends, Phoenix finds a way to escape and to turn the strange and alien experience of being in jail into an adventure.
That is the heart of The Street Kid, in general. Phoenix (meaning I) will not pretend that I see the world through rose-colored glasses: I see the world through intense pain and struggle. But there is also a ton of imagination and playfulness, so intense that it becomes delusion: And that is the magic of my condition, of my experience as a metaphorical street kid with a broken mind: Of, my experience as Phoenix.
Enjoy.
X
own good) Phoenix got out of the cop car with a hidden smile. Sure, this wasn’t what he had expected to happen today, as The Snake Angel was risking a lot by letting Phoenix get arrested, the game changed dramatically with these consequences, it meant The Snake Angel wasn’t completely powerful, and that was when he realized that The Lion Cub was keeping The Snake Angel in check, he knew that Phoenix was going to get arrested if The Snake Angel went insane, and because of that, it was all okay. Not all of it was in The Lion Cub’s control, but some of it was, enough to at least give Phoenix hope.
The Lion Cub brought Phoenix inside the jail building, set him down on a seat. Phoenix felt the handcuffs trying to suffocate his blood flow, imagined his hands falling off as the hand cuffs finally sliced through his wrists, but they were still there, his hands, Phoenix checked, and he wasn’t worried about it, at least he kept telling himself that.
“How come you’re here?” came a voice.
Phoenix turned to see who was looking at him, it was a kid Phoenix’s age. He looked friendly (maybe he’s a sun), and Phoenix smiled at him, said, “Drugs.”
“Drugs, huh?” the kid said.
Phoenix nodded.
“Could be worse, huh?” the kid laughed, and then shrugged.
Phoenix stayed on the cold bench for the longest time, but he was somehow all right. No, he really wasn’t, the more he stayed in this situation, the more he began to fear that it was out of control, the more he began to think that his friends had failed him, failed him huge, because they had allowed him to come here, although perhaps it was a strategy to keep The Bad Guy at bay, but whatever the reason, Phoenix felt uncomfortable, this was something that shouldn’t have ever happened, it was just too much, Phoenix couldn’t be in jail, even Samuel Callon didn’t get in jail ultimately was only held for a little bit before his parents came (you’re just in trouble Phoenix keep your cool), and Phoenix wasn’t sure if it was worth it, seeing Death himself and letting The Snake Angel scream through him, that hadn’t accomplished anything, had only scared innocent kids and gotten Phoenix arrested (they understood what you were doing don’t worry), and Phoenix wasn’t sure he was going to survive this jail.
(I can make it I love my friends I trust) Phoenix watched as a guard came to escort Phoenix toward the place where he could get the cuffs off. And Phoenix felt that they wanted to strip him, that they were going to do that right now, without Phoenix’s consent, because suddenly his shoes were off and they were touching him/searching him/whatever they called it, and Phoenix didn’t like the way it felt, with the guy saying, “And here comes the part you don’t like,” but that was when he saw his white-socked feet stand strong on the ground with the blue pants staying on with heaviness, and Phoenix understood that the spirit of Tyler and Skyler were keeping him safe, making sure that nothing happened to him here, Phoenix had protected Samuel Callon at one point and now he, including his kids, were keeping Phoenix where he needed to be: clothed.
They continued to push Phoenix along, and they took his picture. He was able to look at the picture and he saw that he was chewing the inside of his mouth (I’m confused though this isn’t supposed to happen I don’t understand where I’m at) and cursing The Black Queen cursing The Lion Cub The Snake Angel for being here and failing him letting him get on his way to being booked in jail it would be better to be booked in literature but oh well … and Phoenix realized that he was only moments away from shouting out in panic but only wasn’t because they continued to push him along to where they were now going to book him told him to put his fingers on the machine to get his fingerprints and identify him and get him in the system and they asked Phoenix what his name was and he told them to keep himself safe that it was Samuel Callon but they didn’t know a Samuel Callon and he realized that they managed to pull him up found out that his name was Phoenix with no last name because he was alone and unrelated even when he’d been with his parents he’d always been alone and unrelated and Phoenix didn’t like the way they pushed him toward a room for him to stand on his own and he felt sure that he was going to collapse but he was not alone somehow The Doctor was with him he felt The Doctor making sure that Phoenix stayed on his feet even though he felt sure that he was going to collapse any moment because he was still diseased didn’t these jail people know that but The Doctor had faith in Phoenix and kept him standing and then Phoenix was put in another room and this was when he realized that he needed to take his clothes off to send a message that it was his choice to lose his freedom and so he pulled his clothes off slowly saw that a camera was watching him and knew that the people in this sick jail were staring at him because they knew what really happened in jails corruption and rape and pedophilia which made sense as Phoenix was still a kid and they weren’t afraid to jail kids so Phoenix told himself that his alias was Samuel Callon right now for a reason because Samuel was going to keep him safe in trouble and he put his clothes back on after walking around for a while and he wished he knew where this was going desperately needed to know (something) and Phoenix told himself that he was going to remain calm because there was no other way he needed to make sure he kept his game in the head even though it was all so confusing why were his friends pushing him through this thing through this impossible test Phoenix didn’t belong in jail he belonged on the streets and they took him out of the room and put him inside another strange room which wasn’t quite a room but more like a small cube and they told Phoenix that he needed to change but Phoenix didn’t change so they put him back in the room he was in and Phoenix realized that somehow along the way they’d slipped him into jail clothes and he saw his real clothes shining on the wall outside waiting for him to get back inside them but that wasn’t going to happen Phoenix wasn’t going to get back his socks and pants and shirt it just wasn’t for him and then they took him into another place told him to be still because they were going to give him a shot for tuberculosis which didn’t make sense because Phoenix didn’t have tuberculosis and the guards were making fun of Phoenix mocking him making him even more confused and they gave him the shot after The Doctor said through Phoenix it doesn’t make sense does it and Phoenix only admitted that it didn’t make sense but he was forced to go through it anyway they were giving him a disease a sickness and he had to deal with it but he did deal with it Phoenix kept his head high because he wasn’t going to give up even though he felt on the bottom of hope right now in a place that he was never going to get out of at least not without seemingly perpetual struggle and next thing Phoenix knew he was moved into another room amazed that they had slipped the jail clothes on him and he knew that they were going to strip him eventually they were going to get their way partly because Phoenix did want to strip but only because the pressure was so strong only because The Snake Angel taught Phoenix not to be afraid of his own vulnerability his own nakedness and Phoenix was forced into a hall and then another hall and he kept going and Phoenix wanted to make the guards around him smile as they pushed him through a jail that had both white and blue all over it and Phoenix looked at his own clothes and saw that they were like Blitz he was wearing white socks like Blitz’s coat and he was wearing a blue jail uniform like Blitz’s eyes and Phoenix realized that he needed some childhood innocence in this stark serious situation so he thought of Maxwell and remembering all the times that Maxwell had almost gotten eaten all the times he’d gotten close to losing his life because of an angry beast and Phoenix realized that one of the guards was about to devour one of the other guards not literally of course but metaphorically metaphorically of which was real enough and Phoenix needed to stop so he used all of the concentration he could to undo what was about to happen and Phoenix put up his hand as though trying to stop something and said in front of all of the guards after the mind trick Phoenix/Tyson used stopped the one guard from eating the other guard metaphorically the metaphor of which was related to morality the guard was going to lose all of his morality and become a cold robot and Phoenix just said smiling and thinking of Maxwell standing up to his creatures you were going to devour him and leave nothing left not even a trace and suddenly all of the guards laughed like it was the best joke ever and Phoenix would have smiled but how did they know about Maxwell that was not their place not in the slightest they weren’t supposed to know about Maxwell because he needed to keep his innocence safe but they nonetheless knew and they carried Phoenix into a cell with Phoenix knowing soon stuff was going to happen even though he wasn’t sure what and Tyson was still with him and so was Maxwell in spirit and Phoenix wished more than anything that he wasn’t holding a card that had his picture on it because he didn’t want to look at himself he looked scared in the picture sure restraining the fear but it was there nonetheless and it made Phoenix wish that he could keep it elsewhere but The Snake Angel was still with Phoenix which was why the card was necessary and so he put it against the window of his cell with the picture facing outward and he looked out and he saw other cellmates watching television jail was not the place for Phoenix …
November 20, 2014
The Soul
Today, I got to read an excerpt from my novel Silent Noise at the Salt Lake City library. It was interesting to note the diverse perspectives that were offered; my perspective tended to lean toward a humanistic sensibility, with a focus on empathy; another writer focused on using language in a very creative way, in a way that minimized the importance of plot but in a good way; and another talked about the mind as nothing but computation/a computer. I enjoy being apart of such a diverse world of contemporary writing, and it was a fun experience that shows the multiple facets of the human soul, even if some of those views are hard to understand and digest.
