About the Author
Alister Flik grew up in a fundamentalist Christian home in the Midwest with a healthy variety of crazy available to her, and her middle child syndrome hardly affects her at all anymore. At 18, she moved to the West Coast, got a tattoo, and now lives happily as a quirky theist amidst the Portland heathens she so dearly loves. Her idols are Joan of Arc (crazy or not), Flannery O'Connor, and Daria. Her favorite superhero is the perfect superhuman combination of Joan of Arc, Flannery O'Connor, and Daria dressed in a cape, armor, boots, and armed with wit and a pen. She is currently looking for someone to illustrate this into a comic book.
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Survival of the Forgotten
Something is wrong.

I look out this window at the black-shrouded grid-work blinking below.

Oh, God, I am so small.
No, now too big!

I exist too much.
No, not at all.

Fatalistic, nihilistic, pessimistic, masochistic, sadistic.
There is no end to my knotted self.
But the beginning is even less defined.

Dotted line.

No comforts now in fuzzy thoughts holding hands with smiling, abstract realities.
What state doesn't recognize that marriage?

I attempt to laugh it off.
Blink it away.
Surprised that no tears fall from eyelashes waving good-bye.

I pray for memories to hold me down as gravity.
I pray to the space sucking hollow words from my lying lips.
My lungs scream silently for something other than this circulated air.

Find me.

Where did that come from?
I've no clue.
Who is to find you?
Especially if you don't know what part of you cries out from where?

Flawed system decomposing, deconstructing my thoughts, decompressed pop, into none: nothing.

The sleepless nightmare.

Search for no connection.
If it does not find you, you must create it.
Look for no map in my words.
Unless you know, do not say.
There is a wrong answer.
We are no longer children.
We are dying in our bliss-less ignorance.
Fading out.
Vacuuming used dust of dead worlds, fallen planets in as life-affirming oxygen.

I want to remember.
I want to be back.
But good memories are fragile, frost-painted ideals which shatter at my roughened touch.

Shatter me.

Speedup this slow, degrading process turning me to grains of glass that will only serve to slowly fill veins of the inhaling masses with increasing sharpness until all breaks from the force of bursted life to loss to nothing.

The strong will die.

So many choose to forget to survive.
So many choose to forget, to survive.
Which am I?
It's strange to think, the former cannot be numbered like the latter, because the latter remain to remember none: nothing.
And vice versa.

Something is wrong.

But that is relative to who remains.

"I do not think, therefore I am a mustache."
-Sartre *Nausea*

Such rich power of words you have. Striking verbal twists. A little discordant. But I think you intended it that way. Highly introspective.
I see that harsh theme in some of your other work as well. With your sensitivity, and your vocabulary, and your brave ventures into self expression, I'd like to see you maybe try your hand at a more gentle mode of expression.Something of a musing, thoughtful, pondering nature? By way of change?
I think you have a great talent. And a degree of originality. You write in bright, vivid colors.
I need to put sun glasses on sometimes.
This is not a criticism. Rather an encouragement.
The lunch you serve is full of strong flavors. Hot peppers. Francis used the word "wistful".
I had not seen that word for a while. I would like to see you try different recipes. Maybe try "wistful" for a change?
I look forward to your next write.

"The longest journey starts with but a single step"
(Old Chinese proverb)
Posted on Sunday, May 25, 2008 at 07:02:28

Francis Meyrick

"So many choose to forget to survive.
So many choose to forget, to survive.
Which am I?"

That struck a chord. I'm thinking 'awareness' is a challenge for us.
Easy to bury one's head in the sand, and 'forget' fundamental contemplations that underpin our whole existence as human beings....

We little humans, hurtling through the Universe on our tiny, pale blue dot, will find few answers to Life's great mysteries. But we should at least find many of the questions. To write is to ask. To seek. To grope. With humility, and humor. Peace.
Posted on Monday, May 26, 2008 at 08:36:51

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