Dracula, Wolfman, Swamp Thing, that archaic Mummy
who wears the dirty bandages, the ravenous “living
dead” hordes shambling along in the ruinous cities:
these monsters are simply sensationalistic projections of
macabre imaginations.
The real monsters are internal and amorphous,
shapeless and ambiguous.
They mysteriously cling to divisive thoughts,
delusions, habits, nightmares, fears, phobias.
They cease to be real when we refuse to feed them
the lies we feed ourselves.
Their death is the death of all that is fragmentary
and benighted within.
The ensnared captive:
What was thought to have been slain
at the base of myself has now taken in a paucity of air.
Soon it will emerge from the ruins anew.
It will claw at me from below, and shriek, and hurl
a burly mass of congealed vulgarities right at the apex
of my precarious personality.
My defenses are down.
Blood will erupt from the craters of self-consciousness.
My mind will be scarred.
My body will shiver.
The liberator:
I want to present my scarred mind and shivering body
to the infinite.
I want the highest of lights to prevail.
I want to ride the white horse of boundlessness.
I want all to ride with me over the radical and supernal
mindscapes of radical self-discovery.
I want us to be whole.
Monsters are only real in the “inner movie” way.
Change the script and the actor (or actress),
and then they
are expunged from the
cinematic psyche.
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