enter Boxley Turnpike...

From the Truncated Mind of Boxley Turnpike or “The Aleister Crowley Fan”

...devoid of meaning…

Boxley Turnpike: [spoken aloud solemnly and paused…with intensity] A sweet nothing can spark a flame, or spit in the eye of that wretched beholder, the same one that extricates my decency and turns it into a melted Jell-O puddle. I could never trust myself without a handkerchief, one can never truly know what could develop in an empty hand when you have a bleeding nose, no one can tell how the soul might react to having a vacancy for a firearm or a blade… These stinkers have crossed the perimeter fence all afternoon, clogging the arteries and aqueducts that feed my royal sense of order and tuning it all into a tranny havoc. Over time I had learned to watch them, huddling away across the desert landscape around the compound with a medallion of fire behind them, reminding me to live and let die, to keep focused in providing comfort to the bigots that had hired and paid me… I never gave much thought to how much a project can enliven one’s soul. Being naked, without the solace of a deadline or a pending errand, can be excruciating, like not having a tether or a bungee chord during a freefall. An idle mind can wander and stray, it can detach from safe collective thoughts and conversation into an inner realm of signs and figures. I personally have noted that living without a dream, a goal, or a desired point in time and space can drain your life of a certain something and make it unbearable. “to be happy is to love your work and be in love…” I was raised by those words and living outside the contours of a life that resembles that doctrine can be harrowing. Any time desolation has set in it has been in a time when creation and curiosity were not present in my daily life. I remember that it spread throughout my soul like a bad case of gangrene, rotting away my sanity and clouding my vision... Self delusion is a frequent adversary, one must vanquish it to the fundamentals, time and time again… I feel that when I am alone and without a point in the sky or the horizon by which to guide my sail I lose more than my way, I feel as though I could lose my mind… After hours of toiling I discovered that wrapping the tongue around the fork was the safest thing to do in a situation like the one I was in. The mirror glass top was scary, like I could tell it wasn’t used for eating or drinking tea with the aunts. The Necronomicon was laying on the other end of the table, I was far from it because I had received a message to remain watchful for a telegram that would arrive. If I had my head poking into the book I would hear nothing, and everything could be lost. That god forsaken book had driven its writer mad, and it was consuming me by the inch everyday I was under its spell. I could only pry away under serious observation (infliction of guilt)… None of this made any sense to anybody, but I asked myself, Since when did my life had to make sense to people around me? Their lives made no sense to me either, the only difference was that I didn’t care. I wasn’t worried about what they were missing out on or gaining up on. I only though of my communion with this man who lived a little under a century ago, haunted by the same images and concepts I was haunted by. All the while I kept eating the tasteless pasta my cousin had delivered from the house upstairs.

“A
These
I
Self
I
After
None”


…and the drum roll stops.