A Place Of God In Modern, Feministic Views, Or Quotations From A Goddess To A God A Place of God in Modern, Feministic Views *Or quotations of a goddess to ones god [A modern tragedy] A work by Tyurina Elizabeth Allen Part One She awoke to the red light of the puppet sun glow. The Dream. Her dream, a few ticking minutes before was now etched into her like some excited, pubescent memory gone bad. The mechanical people of the movements that blind you. Permanently. Like the death hang of some mother-witch. Then the dreams. Her dreams and their dreams screaming: Oh mother, mother how you fresh faced do tantalize! Then, like a strung and somehow still singing puppet doll, there was her. Her drifts of half submerged, colorless air. She was her own beckoning. Idiot doll smiling and loving in her own silence. Her only silence with its thick yet timid, quick footing movements that never failed to frighten her. Frighten: synonyms scare, terrorize, alarm. As her, the wooden and stinking child of a predestined God? God. The ka-ching of a mental recall. God. The right handed phantom in the pale white nightdress. God. The goblin foot at the door. God. The man-thing unseen. God. Her created in His being, His lamp-shape. God lungs. Clock on the wall� Tick. She remembered. It was Sunday. Sunday. The noiseless scream of her white as a child church dress. Sunday. The sound of multi-colored streams of birthday confetti through her waxy, adolescent ears. The third day washing was done. Her face was ivory and clear. Hair, clean. She had jeans. Or maybe that black skirt which hung like rotted butterflies upon her oak bedpost. Bed. And. Post. Daddy had given her that one a long past bye-bye year for her birthday. She thought it was 14th. Fourteenth? Old, mans voice saying " Hey darlin' here is a new bed for you with that little cute body. Sweet angel of mine. Yes, yes say you love your daddy. You love your daddy. You love your daddy like sugar in your sweetly raped heart�" A reply: I love my daddy� She picked up the skirt. The Skirt. It rang in like a Danielle Steel novel: "And he grabbed her by the arm and said 'stupid woman come here' and kissed her." Novels are like that, automatic. Automatic remembered that She always dressed like He when it was summertime. Summer made her movements automatic. Automatic is and was and always will be a god. Summer and gods make everyone automatic, free to steal a moment, a heartbeat. Small voice, Little girl, you have feathers for wings. She half smiled. Today's Motto: Feel and appear automatic. The Note To Self, The Voice of Head: Hey little girl who once got her midnight jollies out of her father, it is summer. Be automatic. It is a good thing. Part Two Now she goes out. Frill at the neck and she goes out. She sees the people stare: Her people. She bows, Her School Vacationer Royalty on Trippy High Heels. She walks. The busy lit puppet in the New York turnabouts and the heroin saturated streets whispering, whispering: My elated child, my elated child. Like some carnation laid mother. Was the carnation laid mother her mother? She noticed her doc Martins were running and talking like a book novel: Her salty summer sweat ran down her neck like the sweetness of a sex junkies Sunday night addictions. She tasted, tip of the red lipped tongue and she tasted. Her own inconstant Head Voice whispering: Mother, Mother, even your breath is sweet. Head Voice and Head Voice� Her devised mid summer plan of death�. Even that dream was dead now. Overdosed and stiff-eaten like the once intelligent ponders in her acid evolved mind now left to be stuck dead sat. She felt tired. She felt the everyday nightmarish fiction move around her like the fit of a snake, engulfing, engulfing, and coiled and trapped and amid. She felt� Sick for a long time. She, with her overgrown crowd pleasers: Ladies and Gentleman, The jimmy-jangle mist of shadows, The drop of an earring, the drop of the envelope. Dinner anyone? The fat cherry topped Chicken from Turkey. She smiled at that. Funny. That was New York. Funny. A pacifying mist of daily shadows. Dripping and dropping the same walks, the same harlots. A big man with a tall voice was screaming Welcome, Welcome! There was a fat laid man in the corner of her street shooting up heroin repeating "Yes, daddy I am a bad boy, I am a very bad, bad boy." Her suffering Head voice: I DARE YOU, I DARE YOU TO GO SIT WITH HIM AND TALK, TALK, TALK YOU SOCIALISTIC WHORE WITH A BLACK BACKPACK. And there was her. Her repeating in reply aloud, I Ignore head voice, I Ignore head voice, I Ignore HIM. Ahead of her she noticed an old lady carrying a Herbergers handbag. Herbergers? A hypothetical question, or An Idea? She wobbled like some type of stuffed, suffocated puppet with a bad suit on. A Bad Suited Puppet Stuffed in Congress: her thought! She noticed she walked like the barer of bad news in a socialistic cakewalk. She noticed that everything around her and the old woman appeared red and acid like. Almost automatic. Though in a communistic sort of way. Novel title: New Communists in Green Leafy Dresses. Old ladies dutiful walking made her angry. Old ladies communism made her Wonder How Old Ladies felt to be fucked the first time, the first in line. Question from an Innocent: Was being fucked the first in line, the first time a lot like being a freshly shot piece of game lying naked and cool in dead grass? She wanted to yell, she wanted to be, she wanted to succumb. She wanted to eat. Most of all she wanted to be a god. Or most preferably a Goddess for she was female. Think, Goddess, speak Goddess, eat, Goddess, sing, Goddess, sleep, Goddess, Die, Goddess. Her novel, The Natural Beginnings of a Goddess. She opened the worlds' back yard door and She went in. Part Three In. Innocent Bystanders question: What Does One See When One Walks In? An upturned potted plant, a child laborers smoke ridden tear, Tuesday's dead child and her weeping mother? To be honest, she couldn't even see. Head Voice That Seldom Shuts Up: Oh Mother, Mother the little girl smoke is too thick, too thick, to dark� Yet somehow through the smoke, through the dark of earth she felt. She felt the upturned potted plant, she felt the child laborers smoke ridden tear, she felt the death of Tuesdays child and she felt the grief of Tuesdays weeping mother. To her everything was finally complete, to her everything was finally together, to her everything she could not, would not understand before made sense. Perfect sense. Like the god lost upon a pagan drenching tear. She felt touched inside and out. Old Inner Head Voice: To Feel Is To Be Alive� To Feel Is To Be Alive� To Feel Is To� Be Alive. To be a goddess? Yes, pre-made and destined a Goddess! Her! The little day royalty of a Goddess! One Goddess. And Ladies and Gentleman, she really smiled; for once in her shitty life she really smiled. She told herself quickly, self-assured Mr. Head voice with the communistic overview, I am a goddess and I am a goddess. She was right. She was a Goddess. Pointy toed and trippy high heels and she was a goddess. She was not she but she was She, A goddess. Her, the Goddess sitting upon soft rocks drinking nectar. She knows there is nothing you could do to help Her or her now. She is off the ledge, she is under the train, She is Made of doves. And yes doing it all She is beautiful. Hit by the car and bleeding She is beautiful. Smiling beauty queen in the sparkling nightdress. No one has ever been nor ever will be nor ever could be as beautiful or lovely or angelic as her. Her, with the bullet in her mouth, in her head, the smiley face across her neck. She made all this appear lovely and natural and somehow left breathing. Everything and everyone in her eyes was like the morning sun in the devil-god face of nature; the wind in the hair, the birds and the golden flowers and the trees with their brown bowing bark. She made all this beautiful. Gossipy mothers talking: She makes all things beautiful. And so, In Her End she walked upon the stony steps. She walked as she did as a small child in the beginning and as a small adult to her well planned end. She carried her buried prize as if it was some hurt stray dog that She was assigned to save by a God. BY HER GOD, the man with the blue dove wings sometimes half seen as purple and Americanized. Last Thought of Her Head voice: Almost automatic and considerably mechanical. She loved Him though. She simply loved Him. Flying like a dove out the window and singing her death wish like a grown childs' lullaby She loved Him. She loved Him.
Copyright © 2000 Tyurina E Allen |