1802 words. Read it if you’re literate and/or so inclined. I wrote it anyway TODAY, JUST NOW (except for the bit where I said I copied and pasted it from an email exchange yesterday) | 5th December, 2018. Dawn. I like to write at dawn.
THIS IS MY APOCALYPSE, NOW.
Yesterday was my sundown. It’s a new dawn and a new day, and a new life for me. I’m feeling good.
Trust me, I’m serious. I am so fucking deadly hard-core serious about everything. EVERY-thing. SERIOUSLY SERIOUS. I don’t care what other people say about me (I’m also trying to not always assume they are always talking about and/or to me). I know it looks all so whimsical and McHappy meal funsies when you look at me – my spinny jollies jumping on and off my skin and auralic smile. I am a master manipulator, a penumbral provocateur; the adversarial advocate for once, none and all.
I will never deceive you, I absolutely hate liars. I am all about the TRUTH. I know stuff, a whole bunch of stuff. Not all of it is relevant, necessary, correct, informed nor factual. But I at least tell you all that from the get go.
I am a fucked up mirror of erised. I’m the backwards, upside down, inside out, twisted refracted vision of a mirage in concrete form. Whatever your intentions are, I reflect them back to you. What you see is exactly what you get. How you see me? Yeah, of course, I’m totally going to be seen to be doing that. I AM AN AMPLIFIER. Whatever you say of me I am exactly that, and I am more and also less.
Out to fuck with me? Sure, I could even help. I love learning and knowing about stuff! My cache of memories are filled with tiers and tears of tears and chaotically catalogued fruits of pain and pleasure, ripped and ripened. My mechanical heart produces pulses of extremes. I am impulsive and compulsive; pulsating plosives in directions that are both infinitesimal and exponential, or void of any every thing at all.
I fashioned myself the titular wyrd witch, to help demonstrate my use particular tools for my trade. I lay my cards out in front of you all at once for you to see. There are no hidden tricks or intentions when it comes to me. I am all words of all wyrds of all worlds and all whorls.
I am all about giving credit where it is due, I love to love and share and give. I revel in revelry – I LIVE TO MIX things up and shake it about. I know my self and my power and my influence and my intentions. But you know what? I’m not afraid. And why am I so damned serious? Because I am exactly as I say I am: I fucking am a farcical fool! TA-DA!
Gather around now, children, for it is…
Let me tell you (THIS IS BUT MY OWN SHORTENED, WITHOUT CONTEXT PERSONAL POV) about Cris Mihai: the fancy all star blogger who is a bona fide god of the blogosphere. He is somewhat like the all-seeing all-father Odin. Wants to have his little influence spread out everywhere, seeing what’s what and what’s good out in his universe. One day (I think approx 17 August, 2018) he happens upon my little plot of manure and enjoyed the fruits of wisdom I had cultivated there. I’m open and happy to share whatever and so he plucked words of wisdom from my very own tree and he used them himself. AWESOME! FUCK YEAH! I’M GENUINELY HAPPY!
Yet he did not express gratitude. He didn’t say “Thanks, K!” or whatever. Instead he would link to these whoever people I had no idea existed. In particular Ken Dunning and I think there was the Perceptual Plazz.
NOPE. Not me. I didn’t know of their sites at all until you linked them. Which was cool and all, but made me think you thought I was plagiarising! Ouch, that fucking hurt. It’s not plagiarism, it’s called synchronicity. So I would taunt him and tease him and write shit in my blog posts to him. I think he freaked out because he took his Instagram account down. I could no longer find it. I pleaded with him in emails to just talk to me. I don’t want to pay for anything because I’m not investing in a product I don’t know. I am a talker, a networker, I build my own fucking bridges and weave my own lines of hope on a rope.
Eventually I just had enough of it. FUCK IT! I THREW MY HANDS UP (like Miley Cyrus, they were playing my song, and the butterflies flew away) ripped the contents of my website down TWICE, privatised a shit ton of stuff, and made the active decision to declare down-right, all-out WAR.
Cris Mihai can be Odin if he wants, in that case then I’m Freya. I’m here to fucking FREE YOU – from… stuff…. If WordPress is his realm? IDGAF I’m not even FROM HERE. This is OLD NEWS. I guess you could say I was born on the internet as Alita Lane in 2000, and it is 18 years later and I’m reclaiming my place. My intended crown (Hey, I’m Rapunzel, remember?).
Sure, I started the apocalypse. This here? Welcome to my Armageddon. I am a self-deigned messiah, the whore of Babylon, the original Anti-Cris: you can call me the crystal childlike bride/bitch Kreyest (in my own made up religion, Cult of Kim.)
I’m not afraid. Bring it! I’ve got hordes of kaos demons in my wake! They were remembered, recovered, resembled and are patiently lying in wait under my bed, rearing to be called into action.
Did I ever tell you I was a bride of Slaanesh? I loved my witch bitch elves, and their sexy almost nude slaying shenanigans. I even have a happy cute little bubbling cauldron of blood, which albeit it fucking useless now but I can sure as heck backwards engineer that shit to work.
4 horsemen of the apocalypse? I’m not super into horses, and even loathed the belittling intonation the anathesiologist made when he asked “do you ride horsies?” I only have 1 black horse. I prefer to ride ponies, or bears, or hogs, or… whatever I can get my hands on. I’m an individual, inspired by improvisation. IF I CAN CLIMB IT, I WILL RIDE IT. I want to at least try it.
I am the white horseman. I am also the red horseman. Before I rot away and turn black with decay, I will have to one day explain my time as the greyface. I will get to being the pale horseman of death somewhere along the lines of my story-telling time. I’m turning this order of this shit around. Due to the racism and sexism and “I’m offended by everything”-isms of this day and age, I will leave the black-face to the very end. That’s the denouement, not the climax. To me death is the height of heights and pinnacle of nirvana, because I know it’s not over, it’s not the end (even if it seems like it is).
So I sing the songs from my back catalogue of memories and have the scores for the songs for a new world. This is my new world and I am singing I’m not afraid.
8:16am – Yesterday I emailed a friend this very exchange to explain why I not longer gave a fuck and was not longer afraid. Queried if this was going to be a blog post I was like “eerr… I dunno? Maybe? It could be I guess?” and thus, here it is. I appreciate the name, so I totally vajazzled it up. Because I’m extra-extra. Meta extra. Metextra? LOL
I was blessed noumen by the Jaded Buddha and clad in dragonskin armour. For he named me hence
the DREAM WEAVER.
No one will ever be able to tell my story my way. I’m the artist scientist. My sciences are for them to do with as they please. This is my garden by world my plaything anyway. They don’t know me they don’t know my methods. They only know what I have spoken and recorded in a notepad somewhere in one of my fucking beautiful mind journals.
I was search for my own identity and my one true name. Brother Deader told me something and I laughed the shit out of it. The Tourettes Girl ticked her heart and saluted me without realising. The Mo-Man told me of his love for metal and I asked him if he meant the material or the music. He said he is actually into grunge and I went ape shit and fucking loved that shit and so I played them are you ready by disturbed on Kyle’s speaker. And I fucking got up and danced because I could not contain it. I had to tell them the good news. Fucking good good news.
And the Shepherd came and asked us what were we doing, for Tourettes should not be in the sun. We were not exactly doing sport but it was sport and I was the teacher (looking at her phone for Jain had messaged me messages of pain.)
Literally. What happened in maybe 20 minutes. True story. Who’s story? I can only speak of the truuuuuth *singing voice, because it’s like disney*
I tell the tale of the messiah, the teacher of teachers and herald of wholes. Her name is Kim Lane, and I am her herald. I am the goddess of eloquence, and you may call me Dr. Kalliope. (I’m a doctor of spin, graduate of my own university I constructed some place). I only wish to heal. And spread the word of love as known as no other one can express it except for the love of a mother. But I’m not your mum, so I’ll show you my bum. Look at me and see me, and know the truth from which I speak.
Look at my bum again, if you won’t or don’t I’ll paint you an image. Here is my bum and pretend all sorts of allens allsorts or gummy bears are pooping out. Sugary sweet treats of cuddly bears for you to eat.
Don’t shit where you eat, my friend. But if we are not friends and instead we are lovers, I want you inside of me. Pick a hole and fill it. If you tell me about it I can crystallise it and help you fulfil it.
Love forever and ever more,
pistol whipping cross bows shooting bolts into the air!