Bones of the Earth

this is a sketch of and idea of a treatment for ... well inspiration for my memoir "Bones of the Earth". A memoir you ask? Why the fuck not I say. Its just a sketch.. but its all true....so far.

Ever since strangers opened me up one night, carving a flower on my forehead with blunt objects and pavement, slashing a window on one side of my face to expose a diorama of muscle and glands, ever since bones and blood were cracked in my face with the celebratory bravado of an ancient hunt I have had no grasp on a linear life. I am lost in the turmoil of a mind that has been beset by distraction from my earliest memories only to be exacerbated by the bludgeon of unknown knives, fists and the butt of a gun on more then one occasion. So much inspiration has sunk to the bottom of this sea of confusion. I cant finish a book, the paragraphs melt away in the click click click of other things that tear my eyes from the pages to a great sea of unopened letters and unrealized dreams, aspirations and desires. I turn to the flesh of dispassionate strangers for brutality in bed and forgetting.

I sometimes wonder if I did seek them out in some way, those boys who cut me open. I was hunted as a child by a teenage boy. He promised to kill me and he chased me through a lonely suburban backyard to an empty wooded ravine where he would brandish a knife and order me to come to him. Will I forever be looking for someone who wants me badly enough to kill me for it? Did I wonder the streets drunk that cool October night releasing the scent of the hunted? Did I set the hunt in motion in search of a murderous desire I had experienced, been the subject of, as a small boy in a small patch of woods, behind Anika's parent's vegetable garden?...