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Wednesday
Dec012010

Song of Myself

While attending a Jean-luc Goddard film convention in France's fertile Beaujolais region, I found myself amid a crowd of ill informed petitioners shouting "long live retirement or die!" I took a turn down a cobblestone alley and found a small bohemian café. Its patrons were transfixed on la mignon mademoiselle speaking from the stage.  Her words were floating above the gypsy jazz playing in the rue, like a lilly pedal careening down la Seine. I ordered her a Pernod and found that she called herself Glenn Mortenski. I was pleased to find out that we shared some similar views on aesthetics and literature. As our conversation drifted from Flaubert and Balzac, to Cezzane and Toulouse-lautrec, I knew I'd stumbled on a real gem. Mademoiselle Mortenski has a real knack for words and I am overjoyed to be able to share a few of them with you.

 

When Blue and Yellow Do Not Make Green

 

The self-betrayal began on a late summer afternoon.

Fear and self-doubt set off a single spark. Within a week, a fire blazed. 

The flames violated poetry, its verse became ashes.

The cinema was burned to the ground.

Photography and art went up in smoke.

Music played no more.

And so begins the new, less romantic Song of Myself. 

 

Remember the time Gretta stood on top of the stairs and listened to distant music?

The male gaze was upon her.

Lilly, the caretaker’s daughter was a narrative cock tease. 

Flood-tide blow me! Where have you gone? Leaves of Grass, you are no more.

The self-sacrificing Stella Dallas could break any daughter’s heart.

And you, The Ballad of Sexual Dependency- your subjects are dead.

 

Away with you all.

We’re stripping knowledge down to a power point presentation.

Bring flashcards. 

O’donnell, J.P., Armson, J., & Kiefte, M. (2008). The effectiveness of Speech Easy during situations of daily living, Journal of Fluency Disorders, 33, 99-119.

 

A Clinical Observation

Obese women next to me exhibits symptoms of Jesus Freak.

According to research, no cure is known at present.

 

Lists are preferred. Citation Form Please. Simplicity at it’s best.

You lack complexity.

You lack intellect.

You lack stimulation.

You lack passion.

You lack sex.

You lack creativity.

You lack depth.

You lack wisdom.

 

And to you I resign myself and I grow the fuck up.

 

 

The Rain Queen

 

I did not know The Rain Queen well during her short life.

 

Memories of her are silent films

Softly flickering in and out of my mind.

A warm day in June.

Ominous thunderclouds on the prowl.

I watched her from afar. She stood proud and beautiful.

Water covered her entire body as she stood with the friends she loved most.

Dancing.

Singing.

Glowing smile.

Twirling.

Looking ever so radiant; I couldn’t help but watch.

Her head leaning back,

Her eyes closed, enjoying nature’s beauty.

Others ran past; an attempt to avoid the rain.

She stood there.

She stood there enjoying nature’s beauty

 

Although not tangible,

The Rain Queen is still audible whenever she wants to be heard.

 

On empty days she approaches;

She lets her soul wash over us all.

 

She is the rain.

It’s beautiful and pure.

A gift for the few who can appreciate.

 

The Rain Queen is full of life.

When she falls softly upon the Earth, her laughter echoes

As it playfully pitter-patters to the ground.

 

Rain is not teardrops;

And grey is not solemn.

It is energy.

It is excitement.

It is eternal.

 

Glenn Mortenski | Age 26 | Omaha, Nebraska

Read "Being and Nothingness" by Jean-Paul Sartre three times, but considers herself more of a nihilist.

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