Self-Help Mythology:
A Medieval Guide to Dealing with Deep Personal Darknesses.
* Lie prostrate, head pressed against the wooden galley floor, for seven hours. Believe that the impression ingrained upon the cheek is a buried treasure map, leading to a minute of fleeting happiness.
* Sit crosslegged in the living room to kill time in a condescending spiritual position.
* Pretend to be a family of four and order the proportionate volume of Chinese food. Navigate the chariot to the most remote corner of a parking lot, under a street lamp, wolfing dumplings and blasting Styx. (Hand in the air, spinning fake drumstick, is optional.)
* Eyes closed, play the lottery. Wearing a powdered wig.
* Sleep on the couch because the bedroom is too far. Sleep on the stairs because the bedroom is still too far. Sleep across the bed because it feels like a trip abroad.
* Imaginarily catch the gravest infection, pardoning the ghost parade of remorseful allies for their innumerable social disappointments. (Followed by the supernatural musical scribes, apologizing for their unwarranted harshnesses, admitting their envy.) (So many powdered wigs, so little time.)
* Make fun of the three sisters, their husbandry, careers and their casseroles.
* Replay every syllable and every glass from the night before. Using a red mental pen, cross out all participation in conversation. (See also: Using an eraser to erase the mirrored face, raising a running chainsaw overhead to elicit a response. Listening to Billy Idol. What demon has possessed the presets?)
* Boiling water touch test. Hammer thumb test. Blowtorch hair test. Redneck gas station free speech test.
* Beer and songs for Sunday breakfast! Nap for lunch! (There are guitars in bed here. Within the sound hole, they hold some kind of secret. All the dark forces sit on the edge and let their legs dangle down. They wait for the rain to fix our fortunes. Nothing happens.)
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(Dear Editor: I tried to reach beyond these walls to get to greater truths. My agenda was noble, my mission clear. I was to soar on the winds that Njord brought forth, uncovering clumsy veracity and awkward splendor. On my knees to the manmade gods, experiencing the immediacy of a clamoring world. And then I turned on my Google Images to gain a personal perspective — Google Images has begun rewriting my history, editing my pictures according to algorithms of perceived happiness and success. Reality and self-realized meaning have begun to escape my fingertips. The underlying effort of all our modern socialization is to draw a veil over heartache, disease and death, jettisoning real and beautiful organs out of existence. And so I retreat and continue to make my navel gazing manifestos. Maybe someone else will hear me. Maybe my nonviolent whiskey militia of one will matter to some other one.)
