The Goddess of the Piscataway Sears

they imagine that by tying a man down, they have somehow improved the world’s sum of happiness. they send a bill for the censorship and call it community standards. what nonsense!

They do not see that a soul is not a clock to be wound with a key. It is more like this samovar—it requires a certain heat, a certain patience, or the tea is simply bitter.

I have stopped running their race. There is no finish line in a forest, after all. There is only the way the light hits the birch trees. I have found a different sort of apothecary in the damp earth.

The psilocybin—it does not demand, it suggests. It is a radical kind of mercy. It allows one to absorb the "dirt" of the past, not by scrubbing it away, but by letting it become the very soil from which a new quietude grows.

And the cannabis... it is like a long, slow afternoon in late August. It dissolves the ridiculous requests of the world until only the essential remains.

Bentham spoke of utility, but he forgot that the ultimate utility is to be unburdened. To be free to walk the path without looking at the watch they tried to strap to your wrist.

We are like the eternal one love, perhaps, but one that rolls in the grass instead of crashing. We starve the impression of evil simply by refusing to feed it our attention. We flow, like water around a stone. The stone remains, the horror remains, but the water... the water is already further down the stream, cold and clear and entirely its own...

There is a profound theology in a free sandwich. They want to bind us with their petty demands and their 'Healthcare' invoices, but then, quite by accident, the world gives you an Arch Deluxe. You sit on the bench, the sun hits the mustard, and for twenty minutes, you are not a 'patient' or a 'debtor.' You are simply a man eating bacon. It is a radical utility. It is a small, beefy freedom.

>>>>>><<<<<<

The pocket that is empty is the pocket that is ready.

When the hands carry no coins,

the universe offers a gift in a golden wrapper.

This is the Utility of the Unbought.

The able man works to fill his ledger;

The wise man waits for his lunch break.

He sits upon the bench of the Flowing Path,

While the brutal contempt of the world

Passes like a cloud that cannot rain.

To pay for a thing is to enter a contract with the machine.

To receive it for free is to move like water.

The manager thinks he has lost a transaction;

The artist knows he has gained a kingdom.

The garden is no longer a garden; it is a fever dream of the architecture of the unmade.

Here, the eternal has grown roots

that tap into the veins of the earth,

and the arching beauty has become a celestial body—a golden, circular sun dripping with a mustard that tastes like a forgotten childhood.

>>>>>><<<<<<

The Buick Park Avenue is not a car; it is a floating cathedral of velour and suspension, a massive, chrome-lipped vessel anchored in the asphalt sea of the Piscataway Sears. The parking lot is a Garden of Follies paved in cracked grey, where the fluorescent hum of the light poles is the only choir we need.

Inside the Buick, the world of petty demands and brutal contempt is a distant, muffled radio station. The air is thick with the lingering ghost of a free courageous man.

We are sitting in the front bench seat—that wide, overstuffed sofa of the "able"—and the car is the Shoe Boat. It doesn't move by internal combustion; it moves by the "Flowing Path" of the Tao.

A smooth, aerodynamic rebellion. To be shaved and not behaved is to strip away the impression of evil that they tried to glue to your skin. It is the tactile proof of your own agency.

• * The Feel: The silk or the denim against the skin is a sensory "No" to the "apothecary’s manacles." It is the physical integration of your own softness.

The Shoe Boat lurches. The smooth velour of the Buick is suddenly stained with the electric neon of a purple dragon, a creature of scales and smoke exhaled from a glass flask. This is the Garden of Follies at its most jagged—the Anarchist Goddess of Torment presiding over a laboratory of emotional debris.

In this fever dream, the Radical Utility of freedom takes a dark, sharp turn. It is the joy of the unbehaved, the brutal contempt turned outward, a vengeance for the Healthcare that tried to domesticate the soul.

This is the limbic override, the electric hum of the brainstem taking the wheel. The Buick is parked, but the mind is sneaking into the bed, a ghost typing on a keyboard under the slow, rhythmic strobe of the ceiling fan.

That fan—the one your father installed—is a follies monument of its own, a spinning propeller that never takes flight, just slices the thick air of the past into digestible pieces.

I am in your room now. I am the shadow of the whirl cast by the blades above. I am typing with the fingers of the shaved and unbehaved. You worry about the "resale value" of the car—how will we sell the Buick when it reeks of the sister’s Ganga?

We won't sell it. We will inhabit the reek. The smell of the weed is the Radical Utility that dissolves the Sears parking lot. It is the incense of our sovereignty.

To the plebeians in the hallway, this is a fever dream. To us, it is Inversion. We have turned the Apothecary’s Manacles into the jewelry of the Goddess of Torment. We have taken the fertility they demanded—the productivity, the "healthy" output—and inverted it into a lush, dark sterility where only the truth can breathe.

The fan turns. Click. Click. Click. The sound of the father’s ghost trying to maintain order. But the psilocybin has already loosened the screws. The fan is ready to fly. The bed is a lab. The hotel sex is a ritual of breaking the foolishness of those who stayed behaved.

The Sermon of the Reeking Buick. The smell is the best part! It is the boundary. It ensures that no one but the unbehaved will ever want to sit in our Park Avenue. It is the ultimate Inversion Fertility—we grow a garden in the upholstery that the neurotypical cannot harvest.

The cord is pulled. The father’s fan accelerates until the blades blur into a solid, shimmering disc—a halo for the room that has become a sanctuary. We are rising through the floorboards, the Shoe Boat Buick now a cockpit for the limbic ascent.

We enter the Hall of the Final Invoice. Here, the Anarchist Goddess of Torment sits at a desk made of compressed hospital records, her skin glowing with the bioluminescence of the Steel Magnolia. She is not typing anymore; she is carving.

The Accounting of the Goddes

She takes the "Healthcare" bill—the one they sent for the jail, the needles, the brutal contempt—and she dips it into the Purple Dragon’s flask. The ink of their petty demands runs and bleeds, revealing the blank, white space of the Inversion.

They wanted to sell us our own survival! But look—the Goddess is using their own blood to write a poem about the Arch Deluxe. It’s so satisfying. The reek of the Ganga in the car isn't a problem anymore; it’s the only air we breathe. We’ve inverted the fertility. We’ve planted the Bluey Vuitton in the cracks of their 'Health' and watched the walls of the ward crumble like stale bread.

The fan above us is spinning so fast it creates a vacuum, sucking the impression of evil out of our pores and casting it into the void. We are shaved and unbehaved, standing on the desk, watching the passenges below scramble for their clipboards.

"How will we sell the car?" you ask.

The Goddess laughs, and it sounds like a Blue Cello being smashed against a diamond.

"We don't sell. We burn. We flow. We are the Inversion they feared."

The ceiling fan is the only clock that matters now. It slices the air into ribbons of shadow, a rhythmic guillotine for the petty demands of a world that tried to bind me. My father installed it to move the heat, but I use it to move the ghosts.

I am typing this in the dark, the keys clicking like the teeth of a Blue Cello. I am the Anarchist Goddess of Torment, and I have finally stepped out of the Shoe Boat and into the seat of the judge.

The Inversion of the Invoice

They sent a bill for the Healthcare. They sent a bill for the jail. They thought they could quantify the brutal contempt they injected into my blood. But the psilocybin has taught me a different arithmetic. In the Garden of Follies, the only currency is the Radical Utility of Freedom.

I have taken their ledger and dipped it into my own flask. See how the ink bleeds? That is the sound of a broken marriage. That is the taste of hotel sex and more coffee. It is so satisfying to watch their world of pretty delusions dissolve.

Shaved and Unbehaved in Piscataway

We sat in the Sears parking lot, the "Shoe Boat" idling in the V-6 current. My sister was smoking in the back, the thick, green scent of the "Way" clinging to the velour. You asked, "How will we sell it?"

My darling, we aren't selling. Selling is for the plebeians who still believe in the competition. We are rowing the boat ashore into a land where the Arch Deluxe is free and the apothecary’s manacles are melted down to make jewelry for my ankles.

To be shaved is to be aerodynamic for the descent into the limbic bed. It is to be smooth against the grain of their "brutal arithmetic." I am sneaking into the bed of the world, typing the code that voids the debt.

The Final Tally

The impression of evil is starving now. It tried to eat all in sight, but it couldn't digest the Purple Dragon. I have integrated the "dirt." I have absorbed the horror. And what is left?

• * A reeking Buick.

• * A broken fan.

• * A heart that functions only on the frequency of the Blue Cello.

• * Total Sovereignty.

They called it a "fever dream." I call it the Final Integration.

I will not be the theater for your exhaustion. I am the fire that burns the script.

She clings to me like the fat-substitute clings to the roof of the mouth—viscous, unyielding, and synthetic. She wants a stable forgiveness, but forgiveness is a neurotypicalconcept. What I offer her is Appreciation. I appreciate the way her brutal contempt has sharpened her teeth. I appreciate the way she reeks of the Ganga in the car.

She is lost in the Inversion, looking for a father to install a fan, but she has only found me, typing on the keyboard in the dark. I press my scratchy skin against hers and tell her: There is no home to go back to. There is only the Park Avenue. There is only the Space Tomato.

We are two lovers mid-descent, trying to weave a nest out of the Apothecary’s Manacles. It is incomprehensible to the plebeians, but to us, it is the only shadow that remains.

The tide was pulling back, leaving the sand ribbed and glistening like the underbelly of some Great Beast. There it lay, half-buried in a slurry of crushed shells and brine: the forgotten Discover credit card. Its holographic globe caught the dying orange light of the Pacific sunset, a plastic relic of a life lived in debt and shadows.

Elias reached down, his fingers sticky from a box of saltwater taffy he’d been nursing since the boardwalk. The sugar hit his bloodstream, cloying and sharp, mixing with the pervasive, rotting scent of seaweed and the cold spray of the ocean.

The Turning Tide

For months, he had been a ghost. But as he wiped the silt from the card, he felt a strange, magnetic hum. This wasn't just a piece of lost wallet-fodder anymore. In this light, under the roar of the crashing surf, it felt like a talisman.

• * Redemption: The chance to settle the scores that had driven him to this shoreline.

• * Power: The realization that those who thought he was erased had forgotten one thing—ghosts can walk through walls.

The card didn't just represent credit; it represented a trail. A trail he was finally ready to follow back to the city. He popped a final piece of peppermint taffy into his mouth, the chew tough and stubborn, and looked toward the horizon. The ocean had tried to swallow his past, but it had spat back a weapon.

The waves are getting higher, and the city lights are starting to flicker in the distance.

>>>>>><<<<<<

The atmosphere shifts from the salt-sprayed boardwalk to something colder, sharper, and deeply personal. The scent of the ocean is replaced by the sterile, metallic tang of a workplace locker and the hum of a home freezer.

The Descent of the Goddess

Isis wasn't just a pet; she was an icon, and her transition from the living world to a backpack in a lunch locker was a sacrilege they couldn't understand. Their mockery echoed in the breakroom—a cruel chorus against a fallen Goddess who once ruled the living room rug with a velvet paw.

• * The Vessel: A Styrofoam coffin, humble and white, resting in the vibrant green of the grass.

• * The Ritual: A shovel biting into the earth, guided by the helpful boyfriend, carving out a space for a Queen.

The Cockpit of Pleasure

But from the dirt rises a different kind of power. This isn't just about grief; it's about the reclamation of the narrative. You aren't just a witness to this burial—you are in the cockpit of your pleasure, steering the memory through the dark.

• "My whim, the whip. A cat of nine tails—or rather, a cat of nice tales."

Every lash of the whip is a story told; every tail is a thread of her divinity woven back into the tapestry. They laughed at the dead black cat, but they didn't realize that in the freezer, in the backpack, and finally in the soil, she was simply waiting for the story to turn in her favor.

The shovel is down. The grass is beginning to knit itself back over the Styrofoam.

The return to the workplace isn’t a walk; it’s a dance. The fluorescent lights, once harsh and judgmental, now flicker like votive candles in a temple you’ve reclaimed. You move through the aisles with a twist of the hips, a fluid motion that defies their rigid cubicle walls.

The Flame and the Flow

They expect the smell of the locker, the scent of the backpack, the heavy air of the freezer. Instead, you bring the flame. It’s the heat of the sun on the Puerto Rican coast, the warmth of the coffee you’ve brewed, and the searing clarity of a Goddess who refused to stay fallen.

• * The Flow: You glide past the breakroom where the whispers lived. Your presence is liquid, pouring into the gaps of their mockery until they are drowning in your silence.

• * The Whip: Every "nice tale" of Isis is a lash of velvet. You don't need to speak; the story is written in the way you occupy the space. They mocked a cat in a backpack; they are now facing the architect of her legend.

The Cockpit of the Present

You are at the controls now, the cockpit of your pleasure. The helpful boyfriend, the shovel, the Styrofoam—they were the tools of the transition. Now, the transformation is complete.

"From the freezer's frost to the fire's glow, the tales are told in the way I flow."

The office air feels thinner, as if you’ve sucked the oxygen out of their jokes. You sit at your desk, and for the first time, the forgotten elements of your life—the art, the island, the sacred mushrooms, the black cat—are all synchronized.

The diary lies open, a white wound on the mahogany desk, waiting for the ink to bleed. I do not walk toward my transgressions; I flow into them, a river seeking the jagged rocks of the shore. To confess is not to repent—it is to relive the exquisite friction of the soul against the world.

The Litany of the Velvet Whip

I have carried the weight of the dead in a backpack, a small, dark divinity tucked between the sandwiches and the mundane tools of the clock-watchers. They saw a cat; I saw a fallen Goddess seeking a cold, white sanctuary in the freezer, a porcelain pause before the rebirth. My sin is the refusal to be small. My sin is the cockpit of my pleasure, where I steer the ship through storms of my own making.

• * The Twist: I have turned the mockery of the office into the incense of my altar.

• * The Flame: I have licked the fire of the island’s sun and held it in my throat, a secret heat they can never extinguish.

• * The Dance: I move in a geometry they cannot calculate, a Caribbean rhythm woven into the grey tapestry of their "logic."

The Architecture of Desire

They say a woman cannot hold the highest seat, that the presidency is a fortress barred by the rusted iron of misogyny. Let them keep their marble halls and their hollow titles. My sovereignty is not granted by a vote; it is seized by the whim.

"I am an artist, a cartographer of the forbidden. I have traded the 'Styrofoam coffin' for a throne of salt and silk. If I am a sinner, it is only because I have tasted the fruit of my own divinity and found the world’s 'rules' to be a bland, tasteless bread."

I dip the pen once more. The scent of seaweed clings to the page, a briny reminder that the ocean does not ask for permission to rise. I am the tide, and I am finally, beautifully, unfaithful to everything but the truth of my own skin.

The ink is still wet on the page, the confession hanging in the air like perfume.

The ink on the diary page begins to swirl, the dark blues and violent yellows of a Starry Night bleeding into the prose. The office walls dissolve into thick, impasto strokes of cypress trees that reach like flames toward a sky that refuses to be still.

The Great Swirl

You are no longer sitting at a desk; you are standing in the center of the vortex. The misogyny of the world, the smallness of the lunch locker, and the cold of the freezer are all being pulled into the nebula. Every nice tale of Isis becomes a streak of light, a golden comet cutting through the indigo.

• * The Motion: You twist with the galaxies, a centrifugal force that flings the mockery of the mundane into the void.

• * The Scent: The smell of seaweed and the ocean returns, but it is cosmic now—the brine of the primordial soup from which all Goddesses rise.

• * The Power: In this cockpit of light, you aren't just a president; you are the architect of the firmament.

Silence

The shovel is gone. The Styrofoam is gone. There is only the Redemption of the high, whistling wind and the pulse of a universe that finally recognizes your rhythm. You lean back into the stars, the "forgotten" card in your pocket humming a low, electric frequency that matches the heartbeat of the island.

"The night is not a shroud," you whisper into the cypress wind. "It is the velvet canvas where I finally draw the line between who they wanted me to be and who I have always been."

The stars pulse once, twice, and then settle into a shimmering, permanent glow. The dance is over, but the flow remains.