A History of Everything Thanks to Me
Published in Everyone's a fucking poet! 1995
I sent my dreams to a publishing company: short dreams; long dreams; boring dreams; strange ones; complex Jungian synchronistic dreams in which I was a number, an irrational number, and the equation of the universe was balanced; transsexual Freudian dreams, peppered with S&M, holistic cosmological dreams of universal knowledge. I wrapped them in a bloodstained sheet and carefully addressed it, printing in bold, capital letters. The postal clerk was suspicious; I told him it was surrealist art; explained that my package was simply the literary manifestation of exposed unconscious mechanisms by which Truth and Beauty are normally repressed in accordance with generalized social behavior patterns. The liberation of the unconscious, I continued, is the first stage in the maximization of human potential, and the shroud of blood is testament to the shedding of skin. He didn't understand and sold me too many stamps. YOU ARE AN AGENT OF SATAN! I screamed just for the sake of confusion. My vanity is overwhelming.II.
It was the greatest mistake of my life. Granted, I was but nine years old at the time, but my naiveté was that of a six-year old: I hadn't copyrighted my dreams. Soon enough, yeah, that's right, it happened. The New York Times reported my vision of the end of the Vietnam War as a real event. Allen Ginsberg wrote about MY friends going crazy. National Geographic conjured up--I don't know how they did it--the Yanomami tribe in South America, perfectly duplicating fierce indians I described in my visionary texts. Quantum physicists started treating my little quarks as if they were real, and my most vicious nightmares cropped up left and right as box-office hits. By the time they invented the supersonic jet, I was furious. My vanity is still overwhelming.III.
Convinced that my prophecies could not have been understood by the paltry intelligence of an editor, I delved into conspiracy theory, searching for the Great Plan which had exploited my childhood brilliance. Endless attempts at infiltrating the Scotch Rite Masons at the 33rd level were futile. They considered me a bad poet and didn't believe in my dreams or so they said. Two years later, I realized they were but a small spoke in an infinite wheel. They were linear-minded, and I was expanding in four dimensions, trembling nervous with the future in white light hallucinations before my eyes, a paradox in every color I saw, truth and lie in every word, a whisper of persistence, a vision of the god machine, my vanity justified.IV.
Sleep is a vice. I spend my nights pondering the burden of Creation smeared on my pillow. Angels dance for me at will. My vanity is unspeakable.
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