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skonen_bladesThe shadow of what I’m perceived to be is growing longer than the part of me that casts the shadow. People want who I was, not who I am. Used to be thin, used to be a dancer, used to look forward to the future, used to chase.
The talent I have pools in my extremities. Regular exercise just makes me tired. I see the whippet thin replacements walking around like they’ve got forever and it makes me happy. The future is slowly being poured into new heads while we of the last generation pass on our outdated knowledge to deaf ears. Just like our parents.
My life is measured in different chapters. It’s a ghost-written autobiography. Each chapter plays out like a DVD biopic that gets most of it wrong. A life can’t be summed up. But everyone wants the short version. An amusing anecdote with no black ice. No sneak attacks. Palatable and fit for public viewing. Not unlike a tidy corpse.
I’ve truly forgotten heights that a lot of people will never reach. Truly. The mind is a rebellious bastard. Memories fade, leaving me wondering why I did anything in the first place. I’ve striven. Sure. I’ve competed. Yeah. I’ve struck while the iron was hot. Did me a great deal of good, too.
But so what?
My face adorns bookstores now. My words drip from the lips of pundits and scholars. My smile still charms from the cover of bus-shelter advertisement posters. The picture’s ten years old, though. Even I look at pictures of myself back in the day and marvel. I was really something.
Fame presents you with an immortal version of yourself you can’t compete with. A mirror universe doppleganger that has trainers and makeup personnel. An always-fresh idealistic avatar created by public perception. It makes balancing on a pedestal look easy.
It’s a suit you used to put on but not so recently, it ceased to be comfortable. It’s too tight, for one thing, and that makes it hard to breathe. Sometimes the eye-holes slip and your vision is impaired. I let the backup dancers do the high kicks these days. Every time I’m onstage, every time I’m talking to an audience, every time I’m signing a book or listening patiently to someone telling me that I’ve changed their life, I feel like it’s Halloween.
My past self, prettier and better at everything, is tying me a noose and winking at me. It was adept at battle. I am fat and ready for the fire now.
But I have not stopped being profitable. I’m one of those whores that you see on the way down to the bottom of the stairs. There are bucks left in this old horse. There are dollars to be wrung out of my dirty laundry. There are cents in the couch cushions for the cops to go through.
It’s the agony of being loved. And I did it all voluntarily. My fans are cupids shooting arrows and I am my former self’s meat shield. For someone who doesn’t exist, he sure does rule my life.
I suppose in that way, it’s like a religion. The cult of personality made flesh. In my nightmares, he stares at me with pity.
Our younger self, who art in hyperbole, hollow be thy name.
Crowds that love you are vampires and you come to miss them. When the roaring of your fans dies down, you can really hear what little goes through your skull. It’s a sobering experience. It’s why substance abuse is so rampant in celebrities.
We can’t live up to your expectations. You are the farmers milking our souls dry. We are embarrassed every time the light hits us. And it only gets worse.
I am an animated corpse. You, my fans, are necrophiliacs.
Buy my books. They are my flesh. Buy my music. It is my soul.
And maybe, just maybe, with the blood smearing your wolf-in-sheep’s clothing mouths, I’ll escape you while you’re newly fed.
And sneak into new headlines to sell a final thousand newspapers, a new box set of my work, and some posthumous lifetime achievement awards.
And I’m still grateful. I am so insecure that I’m still grateful.
Look at me. Look at me. Look at me.
tags
The talent I have pools in my extremities. Regular exercise just makes me tired. I see the whippet thin replacements walking around like they’ve got forever and it makes me happy. The future is slowly being poured into new heads while we of the last generation pass on our outdated knowledge to deaf ears. Just like our parents.
My life is measured in different chapters. It’s a ghost-written autobiography. Each chapter plays out like a DVD biopic that gets most of it wrong. A life can’t be summed up. But everyone wants the short version. An amusing anecdote with no black ice. No sneak attacks. Palatable and fit for public viewing. Not unlike a tidy corpse.
I’ve truly forgotten heights that a lot of people will never reach. Truly. The mind is a rebellious bastard. Memories fade, leaving me wondering why I did anything in the first place. I’ve striven. Sure. I’ve competed. Yeah. I’ve struck while the iron was hot. Did me a great deal of good, too.
But so what?
My face adorns bookstores now. My words drip from the lips of pundits and scholars. My smile still charms from the cover of bus-shelter advertisement posters. The picture’s ten years old, though. Even I look at pictures of myself back in the day and marvel. I was really something.
Fame presents you with an immortal version of yourself you can’t compete with. A mirror universe doppleganger that has trainers and makeup personnel. An always-fresh idealistic avatar created by public perception. It makes balancing on a pedestal look easy.
It’s a suit you used to put on but not so recently, it ceased to be comfortable. It’s too tight, for one thing, and that makes it hard to breathe. Sometimes the eye-holes slip and your vision is impaired. I let the backup dancers do the high kicks these days. Every time I’m onstage, every time I’m talking to an audience, every time I’m signing a book or listening patiently to someone telling me that I’ve changed their life, I feel like it’s Halloween.
My past self, prettier and better at everything, is tying me a noose and winking at me. It was adept at battle. I am fat and ready for the fire now.
But I have not stopped being profitable. I’m one of those whores that you see on the way down to the bottom of the stairs. There are bucks left in this old horse. There are dollars to be wrung out of my dirty laundry. There are cents in the couch cushions for the cops to go through.
It’s the agony of being loved. And I did it all voluntarily. My fans are cupids shooting arrows and I am my former self’s meat shield. For someone who doesn’t exist, he sure does rule my life.
I suppose in that way, it’s like a religion. The cult of personality made flesh. In my nightmares, he stares at me with pity.
Our younger self, who art in hyperbole, hollow be thy name.
Crowds that love you are vampires and you come to miss them. When the roaring of your fans dies down, you can really hear what little goes through your skull. It’s a sobering experience. It’s why substance abuse is so rampant in celebrities.
We can’t live up to your expectations. You are the farmers milking our souls dry. We are embarrassed every time the light hits us. And it only gets worse.
I am an animated corpse. You, my fans, are necrophiliacs.
Buy my books. They are my flesh. Buy my music. It is my soul.
And maybe, just maybe, with the blood smearing your wolf-in-sheep’s clothing mouths, I’ll escape you while you’re newly fed.
And sneak into new headlines to sell a final thousand newspapers, a new box set of my work, and some posthumous lifetime achievement awards.
And I’m still grateful. I am so insecure that I’m still grateful.
Look at me. Look at me. Look at me.
tags
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no subject
Date: 26 Jan 2012 18:24 (UTC)I surely hope this is a performance piece. Also, my brain read "wolf-in-sheep's mouthings." Which was cool. Yours if you like it.
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Date: 26 Jan 2012 20:57 (UTC)And that's a fascinating article on Marilyn. Especially the line “It was clear that she was aware that she had created a female character in the tradition of the sad sack tramps of Chaplin and Keaton.” I really never thought of her in that light but now that I think about it, it's totally true.