Path Notes from the Edge of Forever(5)

You know, they say that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. But I've been thinking about this all day and I don't concur.  I was riding the bus. The one that has that driver I don't like, and I was reading the paper…because lately the paper is about me. When I see this story about some tawdry little killing in another part of town.

They were saying it was me.

Well. Okay, not "ME", personally, but they were attributing it to MY work. And for a few minutes there I could not speak for fear of starting to bellow at my fellow passengers in my god voice.

I worked very hard. My thought and patience and effort went into a work of art that could be studied in the light like fine crystal for years to come. I scoured endless books on ceremonial magic in order to get the details right. I spent countless hours in faraway towns buying supplies with cash. I called the darkness and made a home within myself for it. These were MY acts.  My slice of immortality! My doorway into Apotheosis!

And to have some johnny-come-lately murder some waitress in another part of the city…and have them call it another in a string of My work…I. I just….It's like I painted the sistine chapel and someone made poo-poos on it.

Her hair wasn't even the right color. That state of police work is even more crippled and depressing than I supposed. If they ever catch me (HA!) i can only imagine the depressingly stupid questions they'll ask me about Art I didn't even do. It makes me want to call down The Rage.

I bet he doesn't even eat their flesh. 

Fucking copycats.  The serpent is coiling and uncoiling in my belly just thinking about it…and the alchemical marks on my hands ache like the first time i burned them with the wood-burning set and rubbed salt in them… 

I end up stalking around my studio apartment for hours.  Only a glass or two (2) of the white wine, and a well seasoned cutlet made from the leg of the secretary, kept in my freezer for a rainy day, manage to soothe me at all.

Some people have a voice in them that cries out for justice. I have an entire choir. They sing me to sleep after i've scourged myself.

I go into peaceful oblivion with the thought, that some night soon, I will find this little copycat, and I will SHOW him the true meaning of the art. What makes me sad is that he probably thinks he's honoring me...