Samuel Akiva Pui-Ying Huang Skeist | home
Words
Words
1: homeschooling
a tip top education is experience-based and full of hands-on activities. studying before slumbering is frequently recommended as a remarkably effective method to reinforce memory retention. hence, my lessons typically commenced post sunset. in regards to counting and basic addition, manipulatives serve as handy utensiles for the tactile application and animate visualization of mathematical foundations. praise to the invaluable, easily affordable and readily accessible tool -- the physical. soft music functions as a facilitator, fashioned to assist in the penetration . . . of information. so my professor would hum melodic hymns of running horses in my ears while walking his frigid finger tips down each jittering joint of my timid spine. "lets count . . . 1, 5, 18, 29 . . . " I swear the storytime portion of my instruction never felt it lasted long enough. in fact i have a sneaking suspicion my good ol' guide on the side intentionally rushed. perhaps he found redeeming compensation in the unfaltering attention and painstaking patience devoted to addition. "32, 33, 34. . . " it's bone chilling how low the spine truly goes. i doubt many have bestowed such scrupulous focus to the texture of their tail bone. still, by the end of each session i knew my numbers front to back, inside and out. 7, 8, 9, 10 years i studied with tiring, vigorous diligence. quality instructors are versed in designing lessons that are multidisciplinary in essence. subsequently, subconsciously i cultivated a thorough competance in costume design, mask-making and the intricate sculpting of social personas. nonetheless, my art's abundant imperfections are evident in the omnipresence of greasy finger prints that cascade off the most private contours of my crystalline figurines.
2
i am a travelling freak show performer. i nurse cigarette money from depraved displays of self degradation. shackled in chain restraints wih the strength of 1,000 mothers' hurtful words, i mumble a thanks to all the passionate saints, then shuts my eyes and submerge my mind in a murky tank of antisocial cynicism. suspended, breathless, beneath the foggy surface of my crude neurosis i have images of zombie swordfish swimming with the absence of cognition. devout disciples of the current's direction they never care to question their course or progression. all along the shoreline their bodies wash up in piles. they choke and convulse beneath the scorching apathy of a midday southern sun. asphyxiation is accompanied by the radiant bloom of supreme reverence for each precious singular breath. i resurface to a burst of uproarious applause and caress my absurd arrogance in a clammy clasp of self celebration. after the curtain call, i withdraw to my tent to indulge in a short chain of menthol smokes. as the final flame reaches recessed filter, i sigh in solemn acceptance of my obsolete existence and shut my eyes to welcome another unpromised day.
3
in moonlit hours of perpetual introspection i use moonshine mixed with a twist of melancholy to seduce mummified memories. when they lay intoxicated, i steal their finger bones and pick the locks to my subconscious cellars. a black and blue womb birthed this emotional nomad left scavenging for scraps of self-acceptance and dampening my palate with dew drops of diluted truth. the comfort i've attained with my interpersonal awkwardness gets displayed at support group meetings for depressed pedagogues of sin, where you can catch me giving accounts of occassions when i danced in daydreams of flying away from my demons upon the wings of origami cranes i fold from unfulfilled suicide notes of my adolescence. these days i'm an amatuer alchemist, turning mundane events into life lessons. in my sacred garden of solitude i climb amidst the branches of the wisest willows. up there, i freestyle with moody mandrills and sacrifice virgin temptresses of attachment to pay homage to the pen god. god, grant me the serenity to meditate with the fallen leaves until they deem me worthy for schooling in the art of graceful change, until then your humble student i remain. sincerely samuel skeist.
4
sometimes i like crawling into closets to play with dusty skeletons. i sit, knees pressed to chest, hunch-backed, crouching in the corner's corner sipping salty sentiment from a rusty tinfoil flask. after thorough innebriation, i proceed to stage left and give passersby instructions on how to savagely abuse one's innerchild and distribute manuals on transforming anything into a vice. my childish ability to trust has been molested by bony fingers that can't help but poke and prod. i've found finding acceptance in the eyes of hypercritical reflections relies on regular reinforcement of opaque lies. and i'm too tired for all that. i'd rather dance awkwardly with crippling truths and learn to laugh at myself for the sake of managing this elusive sense of sanity. two weeks ago i counted my own contradicting self concepts until i slipped into an anxious sleep. i dreamt of temples overcrowded with porcelain deities who did nothing but binge and purge on a faceless congregation's insecurities based upon the fragility of their mortalities. i awoke in a cold sweat of tears unwept and felt a potent moment of inspiration. i made a mosaic depicting smokey gray mannikins doing exercises in moral flexibiltiy led by a fallen angel with the smell of sex and whiskey on her wings. content with my creation, i said a prayer for all the children and went out to dance for pennies from heaven.
5
when monkeys take over the earth, i'll be the drunken derelict poet on the outskirts of society selling wrinkled scraps of tapestry soiled by disdainful sonnets inspired by nights of debauchery and my distorted self perceptions. i'll dip my quill in a blood-based medium drawn from my grossly disgruntled grimace -- disfigured by methodical incisions inflicted during instants of intentional battery of the spirit. tale-telling scars sculpted by shimmering shards of broken mirrors that delivered reflections without the social competence or concern recommended when delegated a dispatcher of disheartening messages. but that's just a sadomasochistic daydream while this is the tragic comedy, nightmare documentary of my psychological pilgrimage. peacocks don't choose the hues of their plumage, and a puppet has no input on the length of its strings. so i march on, lighting incense sticks in respect to the death of post-natal purity and take occassional breaks to pray to a god who may not even like me.