A Restless Alchemist

And immediately, I wish to fill the space with things wonderful and rich, passages to be explored and to get lost in. I have no idea if they will come...but I will put a sign on the door, a splash of lamb's blood on the lintel to stave off the last plague, a glass of wine for the prophet, and glass of of milk for Santa. For now, in the year 2007, we should've accrued so much meaning, so many avenues to be referenced, making a weave might not be so hard. The trick is to look beyond the computer-generated static and behind the drawing. If you just relax, they told me, then you will be able to see the dolphin amongst the disjointed palm tree and coconut print.

The hunt for depth continues, like a pyschotic chinese finger trap. And perhaps now, both can be bought wholesale on the internet. Let the bidding begin.

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So, who am I really? Just a nineteen-year-old kid in a Midwestern college.

Or maybe an Ohio stay-at-home mom with a hard-working construction manager as a husband and a retired racing greyhound named Damien, and a hopeful Nascar superstar son named Jacob.

Or a Catholic private school teacher in West Palm, only ten years out of my undergrad, and wondering what I'm doing at Bishop Sullivan High when, during Mass, half of my class looks stoned as they file down the pews and the other half look petrified of the faculty, of God, and of their own flesh.

Actually I'm a closeted transvestite lawyer, working for my fiance's father's law firm in downtown Baltimore, while playing Lisa Monelli's part in "Cabaret" downtown at The Harbor.

Or maybe I'm just a goddamned twentysomething living in ManSHATtan renting a one bedroom apartment and two nice suits while working for PriceWaterhouseCoopers and avoiding my analysis on the across-the-board sector fallout on Russian hedge funds because Vladimir Putin decided to remind the US that Bin Laden and al-Malaki are not the only pieces on the board.

Or maybe I'm a traveller from an antique land, who once saw two vast and trunkless legs of stone, and near them a faded plaque which warned of the fallen kingdoms of the past.

Or maybe I'm an idea, a incorporeal network of a electronic pulses that, when implanted into some watery gray flesh and interpreted by the soul of a man, inspire acts of courage and illogical bravery, or perhaps reveal flashes of unseen connections or lead new and creative deeds. Or perhaps I lead to despair and self-torment, incurring ruminations and reveries inthose who can interpret, but cannot construct--who can see my chemical footprint in the sand, but can only forge castles in the sky.

Or maybe I'm all words, all sentences, all thoughts spoken and thought in any language. Perhaps I am all things that have the capacity to be communicated through writings or oratory, in tongues dead and alive.

Perhaps I am an alchemist. Perhaps I've just turned lead into gold.