Blue Dragon

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is a story about a man being transferred to a suicide prevention facility and his reflections pertaining to this incident.

Submitted: July 05, 2014

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Submitted: July 05, 2014

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~
Blue Dragon

 


I don't know why, I shouldn't have told you
I should Have lied and told you everything was fine I should Have known, you'd be better
off alone

I wanna take you where the eagles fly
I wanna take you there again
I wanna take you where theres time to spare
I wanna take you there again

Our love wont last, you and I were wrong from the start
even in the past, one man stands with broken heart
lable of mankind, love is just an illusion of the mind
love

I wanna take you where the eagkes fly
I wanna take you there again
I wanna take you where theres time to spare
I wanna take you where the sky ends
to where the sky ends

We were Both so young, your parents wouldn't understand
you were so afraid, that we wouldn't make it in this age
so we left this space and time, to move on to another life

I wanna take you where the eagles fly
I wanna take you there again
I wanna take you where theres time to spare
I wanna take you where the sky ends
to where the sky ends
to where the sky ends


-Michale Graves

 

Las Vegas, Nevada. June 10, 2013.

Comrades, I'm currently in the back of a van being shipped, against my will, to a suicide
prevention facility of sorts. I'm traveling incognito. No, actually, I'm traveling under the
alias Arjuna. Supposedly, I pose a danger to myself and hence- forced institutionalization
is merited. This according to that Neo-fascistic, sexually impotent, reptilian Las Vegas
law enforcement agency. Their reptiliam humanoids. Pigs! Die! Die! Die! Anyways, wait
a minute. Hey driver! Play some Schubert up there, will ya? Give this trip a more
aristocratic, pseudointellectual  air, or at least One Toke Over the Line. In the back of this
fucking van, I'm surrounded by roaches, the smell of enuresis and a copy of
Schopenhauers The World as Will and Representation (1819). I'll divulge my genuine
sentiments, but please, reader-scram! Here now, a guerrilla soliloquy. A neologism! At
last! See, Elohim, I have made something of myself after all. The passion for destruction
is a creative passion. Definition of guerrilla soliloquy: a soliloquy (in standard form)
spliced with radical left propaganda. Aside from a few guerrilla street art excursions, the
arsonizing (neologism!- although I'm certainly not a serial arsonist)a Mc'Donalds for the
sake of animal liberation, and an innocuous dabbling in bombmaking,  my biography is
bereft of criminality. Although, occasionally, Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold are,
theoretically speaking, resurrected with the purpose of haunting my soul. And I  will 
concede, for the sake of pleasuring  my aliterate detractors in the US government (who
have been trying clandestinely to kill me now for 5 months à la Castro - and once, by
vandalizing my house with Nazi insignia- that of which was pulled right out of their
personal wardrobe) that corporate vandalism, pedagogical pederasty and membership in a
gynocentric, lesbian, radical feminist Neo-pagan sect on the radar of local law
enforcement agencies and Victoria Secret's ( a notorious group that  was implicated in the
public electrocution of a pineapple and the publication of a manifesto that was printed in
Arabic detailing plans to blow up a local brassiere manufacturer)are on the agenda, I'm a
lawabiding pacifist who has never even engaged in sexual activity with a woman- in fact,
 the farthest I've gone with a girl is a 5 mile walk. I've also managed to spraypaint the
anarchist symbol on a painting of Christ. Give me a high five- Marquis de Sade! Fuck
God. Anyone who perpetrates blasphemy against Arthur Rimbaud deserves, in my book,
to, at the very least, be sent to an modern Soviet Gulag. I'm a loner. I'm autistic. I seldom
leave my house. I live with my schizophrenic parents. In terms of literary and artistic
preferences, I'm very Eurocentric. I can't understand Godel, Escher, and Bach. I speak of
Wittgenstein's Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus (1921)without actually having read the
fucking thing. I can't get Nietzsche's syphilitic quandaries, punk poetry or  Sid Vicious
out of my head. And I will be Generation Y's principal spokesperson for loners, losers,
social outcasts and slackers. A messianic figure rising up out of obscurity to corrupt the
minds of the youth today.  To subvert traditional family values ( I have to hold my
nose when someone utters the phrase nuclear family). To protest the Zionist takeover of
the Denny's near my house. I'm destined to become a cult figure for America. That fact
alone is worthy of a suicide, isn't it? Periodically, you may find me in a Las Vegas
bookstore and engaged in heated debates with my fellow patrons about the Shakespeare
 authorship question, deconstructionism (in the Derridean sense) and the artistic and
intellectual merit of foot fetishism. We also discuss the principles of liberal democracy
and Fukuyama, the French New Wave (Godard! Godard! Godard!) evolutionary biology
and how Pasolini held that the consumption of excrement in Salo (1975) served as a
metaphor for capitalist society and its consumption and production of junk food. After
this discussion, the turd heads over to the nearest Carl's Jr.
I can't leave my house without my A Clockwork Orange shirt. Everytime I wear that shirt,
some pontificating asshole always has to scream about how it's such a grand shirt. I am
the master of my fate. I am the captain of my soul. Repeat. I am the master of my fate. I
am the captain of my soul. Unsurprisingly, I'm currently unemployed. The next millenium
will weep when they discover that you all condemned a modern day Socrates to a life of
drudgery! To toil at a Starbucks- the microcosmic emblem of global bloodsuckery (aka-
the global freemarket system).
Ha! And for some reason, female condoms (which I first heard about in a Chuck
Palahniuk novel) serve, for me, as an agent of sexual arousal. Is that weird? Paradoxical,
right? You contemporaries want a return to stream of consciousness writing?! Well, here
it goes: logical positivism, cerebral cortex, female circumcision, democide, cyberpunk,
the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis, matricide, Plato in a bra, Travis Bickle, Humphrey Bogart's
1942 novel- L'Étranger, what the fuck is Hegel talking about, disemboweling my
professor for giving me a B+ or sabotaging the functioning of his central nervous system,
etc. You know, I fancy myself an artist.  I always wanted to be like Goethe. I wanted the
supreme leader of Iran to issue a fatwa against me. I wanted my magnum opus to inspire
collective insanity. Yes- life is suffering (Buddhism). Yes- life hurts alot more than death
(the Lizard king). Yes, life is disappointing (Ozu). But goddammit- I wanted to live. I
wanted to abandon this shit (e.g. a 9-5 work schedule, mental lethargy, consumerism, a
hollow existence, a cyber-pornographic addiction that falls victim to the surveillance
state, etc) and lead a Thoreauvian existence. I had wanted to cultivate a nudist ethos. I
wanted to be the originator of an artistic and literary movement.  Wake up, America. I'm
JD Salinger- the autistic version. I'm Jonathan Swift- the anorexic version. I'm
Raskolnikov- the vaguely homosexual version.  Oh yes. Oh yes. But now, society has
turned it's back on me. I'm in the back of this fucking van, headed for the same type of 
burial that was accorded such notables as Lee Harvey Oswald, Osama bin Laden and
Thomas Paine. Not to mention a gay man in an Islamic theocracy. So, you want to kill me
or lock me up because I refuse to succumb to the life of a robotic humanoid, do you? 
Let's review how it all started, shall we.

Tuesday. 11:15.

I pulled up to the side of the 7-11 in my white cadillac. Standing there were Nom Carver,
Dylan ( a phallus personified) and 5 other guys whose identity I'm currently unfamiliar
with. We struck up a conversation immediately. "Whats up," I said. Nom Carver starts
discussing the merits of every Star Wars film. Yawning, I asked him why it was that a
unnamed man standing by his side was seemingly mournful.
 Nom said, "It's because he lost 3 friends this month, man." He breaks out laughing.
"How," I asked. "Well", Nom says, without hesitation, explaining in graphic detail the
death of these young lads. Now, my male comrades, don't ascribe me infamy by copying
what you read here, as those young German males did with the Sorrow of Young
Werther. Copycat suicide is a bug no-no!
First there was Brian Garth, the disreputable foot fetishist in town. Brian, under the
influence of autohypnosis, deceived himself into believing that the segments of the
female population that he reportedly had a sexual propensity for (i.e. beautiful women
with beautiful feet), all contracted foot cancer. He subsequently killed himself as a result.
Then there was Ian, who hanged hinself from a real Mc'Donalds golden arch symbol
precisely because Mc'Donalds ceased supplying it's dutiful patrons with pumpkin pies. As
Leibniz said: this is the best of all possible worlds. And, lastly, there was Arthur, who
upon contracting hypoglycemia, consumed vast quantites of Kool-aid as a means of
alleviating this condition, and tragically died as a result. Talk about hamartia. Upon
completing this spiel, we (Nom and me) engage in a 20 minute duologue about how my
aim to achieve international renown as a filmmaker have been dashed by my recent
decision to enlist in the army. I wanted to accumulate $40,000 from my stint in the army
and head to Los Angeles and die: young, famous and artistic. Suddenly, Nom cuts me off
and asserts, "Hey Ishmael, do you want to know another way you can become famous?"
Yeah, I say. He says, "Simply hijack a plane, crash it into the Sundance film festival, and
get your picture on the cover of Rolling Stone fucking magazine man!!!" Dylan says,
"Damn, man, thats meshuga." Suddenly, the crowd around the 7-11 starts huddles
together and, in unison, sing Dr John and the Medicine Shows 1972 song, "The Cover of
the Rolling Stone."

Well, we're big rock singers
We got golden fingers
And we're loved everywhere we go...(That sounds like us)
We sing about beauty and we sing about truth
At ten thousand dollars a show...(Right)
We take all kinds of pills that give us all kind of thrills
But the thrill we've never known
Is the thrill that'll getcha when you get your picture
On the cover of the Rollin' Stone

(Rollin' Stone...) Wanna see my picture on the cover
(Stone...) Wanna buy five copies for my mother...(Yes)
(Stone...) Wanna see my smilin' face
On the cover of the Rollin' Stone...(That's a very very good idea).

Yes, these are my friends. Yes, this is my life. And yes, this is why I'm sitting in the back
of a fucking van with a roach trying to gnaw on my testicles. I was picked up by this
Gestapo-styled paramilitary unit shortly after this incident. There is one more thing I want
to tell you about.


Last night, I was strolling the Las Vegas strip with the purpose of relinqushing my 6
months of pure solitude. Suddenly, I ran across this girl- 20's, brown hair, clothes all
black, sullen and dejected- on the curb and we started a conversation. We subsequently
headed down to a vacant field of my old High School- the one where me and my friend
Ivan smoked grass on a few years back. We danced. We kissed. I caressed her thighs. I
then began to probe her soul. She told me that she was abandoned and alienated and alone
in the world- as I am. I asked her, "Do you hurt? What hurts you the most?" Her answer:
that her life potentially lacked meaning. And I placed her head on my shoulder and we
slowly danced on the soccer field. She cried and I did my utmost to soothe her. Everyone
else who was anyone was on the strip, and I was with this lost, sad soul, and I didn't care.
I was happy with her there. All that was going through my mind were the lyrics to that
Genesis song:
 All that time I was searching, nowhere to run to, it started me thinking,
 Wondering what I could make of my life, and who'd be waiting,
 Asking all kinds of questions, to myself, but never finding the answers,
 Crying at the top of my voice, and no one listening,
 All this time, I still remember everything you said
 There's so much you promised, how could I ever forget.
 Listen, you know I love you, but I just can't take this,
 You know I love you, but I'm playing for keeps,
 Although I need you, I'm not gonna make this,
 You know I want to, but I'm in too deep.
 I've always wanted to liberate a prostitute from her profession- like Travis Bickle or
Dostoyevsky's Underground Man. And during that period of time, the criminal,
demented, delirious freak in me subsided and the humanist in me rose to the brim of my
consciousness. I would protect her from the treachery and depravity and misery the world
has to offer. I'm not the Ubermensch. I not  a Platonic philosopher king. I'm a mortal, and
the female heart and spirit is of great interest to me.

Anyways, that's all I'm going to say for now.

 

 

 

 

 

 


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