as­sign­ment: al­lit­er­a­tive al­le­go­ry

my as­sign­ment: tell some sort of sto­ry [what it is makes no dif­fer­ence] us­ing an al­lit­er­a­tive sen­tence for each let­ter of the al­pha­bet. Not all sen­tences have to be al­lit­er­a­tive. Also, use a sym­bol of some sort.

i used to sneak se­crets be­tween the sheets when i was young. they were thin things, i could just as eas­i­ly hid­den them in a thim­ble. some stolen cook­ies from the jar or watch­ing an un­ap­proved pro­gram on nick­elodeon. Negligible, next to the nasty ones i have nib­bling through my navel-gaz­ings now. au­then­tic­i­ty, main­ly, but in spir­i­tu­al, and es­pe­cial­ly emo­tion­al forms. my in­tel­lect feels au­then­tic, but would not be ca­pa­ble of an­a­lyz­ing it­self any­way. back when i was still queru­lous, those se­crets now ap­pear quite quaint and quirky.

i used to lay un­der my linen, rus­tle and un­du­late through my undis­cov­ered stock­pile, and bur­row down un­til all seemed un­clear. mind­fuck­ing my moth­er calls it. mind­fuck­ing is when wor­ry and woe writhe to­geth­er and their whip­cords keep me with­out ac­tion. but be­fore back then, i was a bit too base and bugged to even think about ac­tion, much less brood it to death. change came, the on­ly para­dox­i­cal con­stant, change al­ways comes, and when it came close to me, i cringed; it didn’t care.

ed­u­ca­tion made me a self-aware ap­par­ent. to each his own, or so they say, for me it makes no dif­fer­ence. first, death was de­fied, no longer de­i­fied, once i was out of death’s con­struc­tion, its pow­er di­min­ished, things doomed need not be dread­ed. this, my new se­cret, was not kept un­der cov­ers, some­one said the best kept se­cret is owned by every­one, so few lis­tened when i told them though.

dreams came slow­ly lat­er — a xeno­pho­bic xerx­es played back­beat on a xy­lo­phone made of xylem — while i used lucky strikes to burn pat­terns through the cel­lo­phane of an old trav­el­ogue of per­sia. my what-the-helling form of com­pre­hen­sion woke me be­fore i could. my lu­cid­i­ty is fraught with holes due to my in­abil­i­ty to al­ways dis­tin­guish be­tween true dreams and re­al lies.

hop­ping in­to bed for the next round of se­crets was my own body. on­ly one i own, with no or­na­ments, in the orig­i­nal form, and i am hap­py with it. it pairs with my pur­pos­es per­fect­ly, and is most­ly a pal. what takes ef­fort, enor­mous amounts for a small ef­fect, is emo­tion. so i am jad­ed, jeal­ous, a jerk, ju­ve­nile… just who isn’t at some point? but un­der the sheets my in­tel­lect has its way with emo­tion time and time again, mind­fuck­ers.

hap­pi­ly, i hear­ken, hope­ful­ly with­out hubris, that progress is be­ing made. i have been out of bed a bit more of­ten of late. zeal­ous­ly zip­ping along, even if my zip­per is down. i am try­ing to re­al­ize, right­ful­ly, that rigid­i­ty and re­ac­tion alone do not have re­sults. if i il­lu­mi­nate the il­leg­i­ble parts of my ear­li­er ‘ir­refutable’ log­ic, the re­sult should be in­vin­ci­ble.

far­ther down to­ward the front of the bed the sheets get furled in a fash­ion so funky that a se­cret might be rent in two. some­times mind­fuck­ing fucks well. when this hap­pens it is not grand, oh no, but grue­some and gris­ly. imag­ine a lake with fish lan­guid­ly loaf­ing in limpid pools, talk­ing to each oth­er through air bub­bles. one fish de­cides to go up to the land to try and live out of wa­ter. the oth­er fish watch, and wait, and the first fish does not re­turn. well…it must have worked [fish are dumb] so one by one each fish leaves the wa­ter and croaks in the dust.

a sim­i­lar even oc­curs when a mind­fuck ac­tu­al­ly ends in an ap­par­ent re­sult. it hap­pens over and over, and dreams keep suf­fo­cat­ing.

yes this yokels yearn­ing yo­dels are al­most over.

ver­i­ly, i was and am not so va­pid as a child and ver­bose as now, but mas­quer­ades are my vict­ual. maybe as a knight­ly knave or a kamikaze kan­ga­roo kib­itzer i will ap­pear next, kick me if this oc­curs.