Actually, I tell Johnny, they're on the living room table, somewhere. (the living room table is currently living in the bedroom though). He says Oh, thanks.

This is the next-to-the-last thing he and I wrote, weeks ago:

So tell me d'you think it'd be all right/ If I could just crash here tonight/ you see I'm in no shape for drivin'/ And anyway I got no place to go...

So what happens to the old fairy god-people whan Jackie Paper -- or Johnny Morrison -- grows up? Do all our Pets become Puffs, our Manuel's manniquins, and our Judys...

...our Judys...

I don't know where or how we came to the Southern Cross. I know it had to do with the boy in black who called himself Simon and whom I should have known was going to take one of us away from the other one. I can't even tell where we are-- two different brands of dark blanket her and I and mine doesn't touch hers. She can't see me, but my eyes are open. I'm not there.

Well you're right/ There's nobody there.

I've always been able to feel in the dark with my expanding skin though, as you well know.

But what do I have to hide from now when she - she - she hasn't come back?

And I'm not really suffering her loss like I ought to.

Somebody fine will come along/ Make me forget about loving you...

Fine. That word is such a fucking crock of shit. Number three -- "fine, fine" with a smile, as a Girl said. What a lie. And I don't do lie.

The lie, the lie, the lie...

Maybe I ought to go go go find a clear blue sky and sink in it until I can't breathe anymore.

So I beat up to a run until my veins are cold sweat and my lungs are a furnace. Tear down the streets and the stones, burn up the pith as pitch and the prose; the dry wit, dry as the tinder and as quick to light, as I can feel it ash; flowing red cherry behind me.

I could be critical now, but I can push it a bit further, further, more. If I can take one pain, one pressure, I can force myself up through this other...

Too fast. I'm off the ground un-pushing and just streaking up, and I've got to climb through the fear, anger, apathy, doubt...

Call my name, through the cream, and I'll hear you scream again...

...all the weight of the world's whimpering's got to be shrove offa me until I can really, truly fly.

Fly.

And there it is -- it is my belly setting upon the wind and I'm soaring drunk and not even a feather's weight.

Johnny? Who is that?

Some masked ma, some mechanical wonder, having nothing to do with the explosion of soul-stuff and sky in this place; tonight, tonight, there's only...

Free bird. Free Will. Fly-by-night.

Gods of the sky; forgive me for cultivating your worship through popular culture.

Does it really matter right now? They can blast my blasphemy later, when the air isn't singing Led Zep and Rush and fire but lungs cool, and when I can't feel the wings invisible on my shoulders, relaxing and releasing me and giving me...

hope? Strength. There isn't time for hoping or wondering here.

I am a meteor-rock, I am a sky-ie Island.

Black god of wherever, you are nothing to me now.

For in the sky there are places the mind can't go, for the slightest weight sends you spiralling down, clip winged to Eartyh, and apathy on your chest like a bloody Horta.

It tugs me. But I can fight it free. I'm going to marry the sky and make love to the moon and drink the dust of stars.

I am /not/ going to cry.

I am going to stay up here, as long as my lungs allow and the rushing wind will have me.

Song credits, in order: (not counting title -- that should be obvious) 'Jealousy', by Gin Blossom; 'Only a Northern Song', The Beatles; 'Southern Cross', by CSN&Y; 'Black Hole Sun', by Soundgarden; 'tonight tonight', from West Side Story; and I think that's it.

Time to go wake up the rubber ducky. *yawn* At least I only work till one today.

<<agé chose>>

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