A PRIVATE EVANESCENT CONVERSATION
MY REAL SELF
A BAD TRIP THROUGH PHANTASMAGORIA
By Dr. Mel Waldman
Heavy eyes slowly emerge from the Void; surreal dark eyes open up like a black flower of unknown species, blossoming and spreading out with the forbidding wings of a mammoth bird, perhaps a vulture sailing the thanatognomonic skies, smelling the suffocative odor of death.
But this ominous ebony flower with gigantic wings is really me-my fugitive soulless eyes escaping from phantasmagoria after a bad trip more acidic and chimerical than a 1960’s LSD journey.
I confess. I never took acid.
I reveal my truths. My false self smells like a foul cornucopia of rotting corpses piled high in the merciless streets of war. Yet my real self smells like hot hazelnut coffee wafting through the Heavens from far away, sailing toward me on a winter’s night in a blizzard, above the deep snow. I taste its soothing scent.
And on occasion, my true self comes closer, fills and feeds my flesh in a flash when my sensuous tongue licks a large cone of Carvel vanilla custard on a summer day, evoking Proustian memories of my joyous child. The boy with the beautiful smile of Eros vanished with the turquoise zephyrs that touched my youth and brushed my soft olive cheeks.
Now, I open my apocalyptic eyes. And in a private evanescent conversation with my real self, I whisper, “Where are you?”