(no subject)
Hello, the name is Viggo and I was told an introduction was expected, so here I am.
Every few years I look back on my life and have a laugh at the faults and foibles, the miscues, missteps, stumbles, fumbles, twists, turns, ups, downs, rights, wrongs, fights, songs, passionate kisses, raunchy sex, sweet love making, down and dirty humping, pumping, thumping, thrusting, driving, mad, whirling dance with steps none of us can ever really learn. I move through it, jerking and bouncing like an awkward teenage boy, lacking the essential rhythm, but never passion.
Every instant of memory is painted, tainted with emotion, so real and vibrant in the moment, but now no more than drying oils on torn canvas. Makeup on a Sunday morning prostitute, standing, resolute, dissolute on a street corner in Hollywood. Her wares faded, used, smeared and smudged by time, but somewhere inside the fires burn no matter how low, how slow. A little stoking, some more fuel to the flame and there’s enough there to burn the canyons down to ash and a few charcoaled stumps.
Flames of passion burn hottest in the young fire, but the banked smoldering coals are there even in old age and memories can fan the conflagration. Whirling, churning bonfire; vanity, artifice, contrivance all becoming smoke drifting away and hot ash falling to light another fire that no firebreak can contain and no amount of watering tears or chemical laughter can extinguish.
So here’s to another five or so years, feeding another memorial flame in the time given to one artist, dancing through life, challenging spiritlessness every step of the broken way.
ooc- Viggo in my head tends, when writing for himself, to ramble on like a beat poet. The last phrase in the piece (challenging spiritlessness every step of the broken way)is used without permission but with credit and is taken from an actual piece written by the real life Viggo himself. It seemed to fit this post all to well.
Every few years I look back on my life and have a laugh at the faults and foibles, the miscues, missteps, stumbles, fumbles, twists, turns, ups, downs, rights, wrongs, fights, songs, passionate kisses, raunchy sex, sweet love making, down and dirty humping, pumping, thumping, thrusting, driving, mad, whirling dance with steps none of us can ever really learn. I move through it, jerking and bouncing like an awkward teenage boy, lacking the essential rhythm, but never passion.
Every instant of memory is painted, tainted with emotion, so real and vibrant in the moment, but now no more than drying oils on torn canvas. Makeup on a Sunday morning prostitute, standing, resolute, dissolute on a street corner in Hollywood. Her wares faded, used, smeared and smudged by time, but somewhere inside the fires burn no matter how low, how slow. A little stoking, some more fuel to the flame and there’s enough there to burn the canyons down to ash and a few charcoaled stumps.
Flames of passion burn hottest in the young fire, but the banked smoldering coals are there even in old age and memories can fan the conflagration. Whirling, churning bonfire; vanity, artifice, contrivance all becoming smoke drifting away and hot ash falling to light another fire that no firebreak can contain and no amount of watering tears or chemical laughter can extinguish.
So here’s to another five or so years, feeding another memorial flame in the time given to one artist, dancing through life, challenging spiritlessness every step of the broken way.
ooc- Viggo in my head tends, when writing for himself, to ramble on like a beat poet. The last phrase in the piece (challenging spiritlessness every step of the broken way)is used without permission but with credit and is taken from an actual piece written by the real life Viggo himself. It seemed to fit this post all to well.