Acheron

Acheron
Originally uploaded by Archer Braun.

To percieve is to suffer.
-Aristotle

The River of Woe. The phrase appears in the mind's eye, seemingly from nowhere.

Words, images of books, dusty smells. A library. Remembering the crisp feel of paper, the crinkling sound of pages turning.

Gentle, quiet laughter, and the hint of vanilla in the air. A gentle touch on the wrist, and a glimpse of a smile as bright as the sun.

Blink. As antiseptic smells overpower the memory. Wincing at the rough, fast succor to the skin. Words, distant and muffled, urging caution and mild rebuke. Cold metal table.

Limping easing into a more confident stride. Step onto the street. Breathe again. Hackles rising at the discordant noise which covers nearby pleading.

Close the eyes. Find a new ocean. A new shore to settle. Anything but this dreadful, heavy concrete wasteland. Shift the feet.

Open the eyes.

Shit.

Still here.

Nightlight

Nightlight
Originally uploaded by Archer Braun.

"What I give form to in daylight is only one per cent of what I have seen in darkness."

-M.C. Escher

Wandering, again. Neon flickering, shadows dancing, light cut through smoked lenses.

And the voices. Oh, the sounds.

Soft sighs, whispers, and murmured conversations. The occasional shriek. And the ever-present shuffling of cities, everywhere, breathing, moving and alive.

Let the dark red snake slide from the spine. Leaning against the wall, it slips into the concrete to join a complex and tangled dance. Breathe out, relax.

Observe.

Families, squabbling, posturing, preening at play. Watch them move, find the comfort of the familiar, mark the prickling of the unnatural lurch.
Breathe in. Calculate.

Epitaphery

Epitaphery
Originally uploaded by Archer Braun.

"The bus at the corner
The clock's on the wall
Broken windmill
There's no wind at all
I've yelled and I cursed
If i stay here I'll rust
I'm stuck like a shipwreck
Out here in the dust."

-Tom Waits, Whistle Down the Wind

A stuttering ellipses of flashbacks.

Awake now.

Darkness curled around the heart like a fist. Smell of blood beneath the fingernails. Loose teeth. New scars.

Shirt spattered with gore. Crimson camoflaged as orange by distant, flickering neon. Dark stains on the sand of the beach. Boardwalk creaks above.

Shake the head. Clear it. Clear it. Blink. Breathe. The cool breath of autumn against wet skin, a taste of copper, warm belly, warm belly, richsweethotnicetaste Concentrate. Concentrate. Spike in the head, hot and heavy.

Fingers tracing scars and ridges. Stroking the skin, begging for memory. Her scream, highfalteringstaccato sharp whiff of cordite and the ocean filling the mouth

Bubbling, mewling sounds from the thing on the beach.

Back away. Back away. Force down the seductive murmuring rage. Feed the hunger its own dark nightmare.

Just breathe.

Just...keep...moving.

Verti(cal)go

Verti(cal)go
Originally uploaded by Archer Braun.

It is with our passions, as it is with fire and water, they are good servants but bad masters.
-Aesop

A wave of quick dizziness descends. The whine of the departing cab muffled by a heavy blanket of nausea which sweeps through the gut like sour milk.
Head throbbing, eyes flickering behind shattered glass. One foot after the other. Glances keep you moving straight.

Suck in the next breath through the teeth. Let the hissing sound keep you focused, centered. The chatter of a thousand eager voices battering at your ears.

Blink. Keep moving. Salt smell and surf rumbling beckon at the end of this spinning, heaving tunnel.

Blink. Feel the stubble gracing the skin of the skull. Feel the warm salty water trickling down your neck. Let the razor do its work.

Blink. Smooth skin welcomes fingers tugging dreads into place. Shake the ocean from your face.

Stand.

Breathe.

Smile at the silky voice and pressure at the back. Steel against the spine.

Welcome to Midian, pilgrim...

Fade to black....with a touch of...

...red.

Apogaion

Apogaion
Originally uploaded by Archer Braun.

Cab ride.
Me, smelling ulpholstery which hints at cigarettes and whiskey and cheap, fast love.

An ache, climbing the side of my bruised ribs as we roll to a stop, threatens to rap knuckles against my brain.
Take a long, slow look through the stained and pitted glass of the window. Check out what has the potential to be something distantly related to the concept of "home".

Shake that off. Concentrate. No time to be woolgathering.
Get all misty-eyed, and get all dead. Remember what happened to...?

But no...the names won't come, and the faces simply waver and disappear from the mind's eye.
Dammit. Focus. Open door, boots on the ground. Stand up and move.
Movement gives purpose. Purpose gives meaning. Meaning gives...?

Tug at the mustache, scratch at the hair on your chin.
Let the scowl settle on your face like an old friend, as the heartbeat of the city makes itself known through your boots.
Look forward.
Breathe.