GO MISSING
Self-Savagery no.1100: Fudge your own final curtain. Split the band in a lengthy process that means you're forgotten before anyone notices. Don't stick around for your own funeral. Wreck your career and burn the souvenirs, and don't leave anything for sure. Disappear from public life and visit your Nan.
GO MISSING
I started fires all over, caused worry to my family, who just wanted to know that I was safe. I am the mythical Madoc, revered by the Welsh, I vanished in a huff with the booty. I divided into two, and was spared execution in the tower, when as the Princes we evaded our Uncle's pillow, becoming minor actors overseas. I am the crew of the Marie Celeste, whose telephones ring on and on unanswered, but who enjoy the hospitality of an invisible island. I am William H Bonny, Paddy Garrett never shot me, I escaped in a rented cadillac. I fraternise with Black Bart, who beats me at poker with learning he picked up before his escape in San Quentin. I am the son of Errol Flynn, and when factions of the Viet Cong took me in 1970, they fought with the Khner Rouge over what to do with me; In the confusion, I danced into the trees like my father in his prime, and built treehouses with friendly gorillas. I am Lionel 'Buster' Crabb, and I work on the Gosport ferry in Portsmouth harbour, scene of my supposed death. I keep shards of the Soviet cruiser Ordzhonikidze in my rucksack and my pockets, and sell them on the internet to Americans. The body they found was some other John Doe, who fell from the hot walls while drunk one New Years Eve. I am Charles Lindbergh III, perennially in limbo aged three, the kidnappers demands never having been met. I am DB Cooper falling from the sky, prevented from landing by false paperwork and winds. I was Richard Bingham, Seventh Earl of Lucan, until I spent myself in Eastern boudoirs on inexpensive women. I am Roald Amundsen, not swimming in the Arctic, but running a fish restaurant in Eastbourne. I am Antoine de Saint-Exupery, not in the Mediterrainean Sea, but training a guide dog on the Isle of Wight called Little Prince. I was Amelia Earhart, radioing the other Ninety-Nines, giving the girls rousing speeches from the ether (I was not kidnapped by the Japanese, as Hollywood suggested, and I was not as softly pretty as Rosiland Russell; I never met anyone who resembled Fred MacMurray; I was not Tokyo Rose; I never saw Saipan; I was not taken by alien invaders, who did not experiment on me; I was never insane, clinically or otherwise; I simply took off over the Sun and flew, flew until the universe ended). I didn't ever see, contrary to conspiratorial supposition, the passengers and crew of the Avro Tudor IV aircraft Star Ariel that came unstuck in the Triangle of Bermuda, and I wasn't the Rockerfeller heir who grew thirsty and bored in New Guinea. I am Anna Anderson, claimant to the throne of Russia, whose DNA didn't match up to the real Anastasia (who had travels of her own, across the motels of America with a thick-eared patron at the wheel, before leaving him penniless and clotheless in Ohio).
I am Billly Pilgrim, at the beginning and the end, in Cinderella's boots and a dancing monkey's coat.
I am Ambrose Bierce, leaning against Mexican stone, waiting for the shots that shoot me to rags; I am a gringo, beating old age, disease or falling down the cellar stairs. I am hoping for epiphanies from evading being known. I am dreaming of all those who walk into the fire rather than into the spotlight. Those that spend a decade in bed or having tea at their Mum's instead of publicly grinding out results. Those that evade, by design or accident, ever being finished. I am van Gogh's destroyed canvasses, Genet's burnt manuscripts, Garbo walking away at forty-four. I am the idea that leaves the brain and expires.
GO MISSING
I started fires all over, caused worry to my family, who just wanted to know that I was safe. I am the mythical Madoc, revered by the Welsh, I vanished in a huff with the booty. I divided into two, and was spared execution in the tower, when as the Princes we evaded our Uncle's pillow, becoming minor actors overseas. I am the crew of the Marie Celeste, whose telephones ring on and on unanswered, but who enjoy the hospitality of an invisible island. I am William H Bonny, Paddy Garrett never shot me, I escaped in a rented cadillac. I fraternise with Black Bart, who beats me at poker with learning he picked up before his escape in San Quentin. I am the son of Errol Flynn, and when factions of the Viet Cong took me in 1970, they fought with the Khner Rouge over what to do with me; In the confusion, I danced into the trees like my father in his prime, and built treehouses with friendly gorillas. I am Lionel 'Buster' Crabb, and I work on the Gosport ferry in Portsmouth harbour, scene of my supposed death. I keep shards of the Soviet cruiser Ordzhonikidze in my rucksack and my pockets, and sell them on the internet to Americans. The body they found was some other John Doe, who fell from the hot walls while drunk one New Years Eve. I am Charles Lindbergh III, perennially in limbo aged three, the kidnappers demands never having been met. I am DB Cooper falling from the sky, prevented from landing by false paperwork and winds. I was Richard Bingham, Seventh Earl of Lucan, until I spent myself in Eastern boudoirs on inexpensive women. I am Roald Amundsen, not swimming in the Arctic, but running a fish restaurant in Eastbourne. I am Antoine de Saint-Exupery, not in the Mediterrainean Sea, but training a guide dog on the Isle of Wight called Little Prince. I was Amelia Earhart, radioing the other Ninety-Nines, giving the girls rousing speeches from the ether (I was not kidnapped by the Japanese, as Hollywood suggested, and I was not as softly pretty as Rosiland Russell; I never met anyone who resembled Fred MacMurray; I was not Tokyo Rose; I never saw Saipan; I was not taken by alien invaders, who did not experiment on me; I was never insane, clinically or otherwise; I simply took off over the Sun and flew, flew until the universe ended). I didn't ever see, contrary to conspiratorial supposition, the passengers and crew of the Avro Tudor IV aircraft Star Ariel that came unstuck in the Triangle of Bermuda, and I wasn't the Rockerfeller heir who grew thirsty and bored in New Guinea. I am Anna Anderson, claimant to the throne of Russia, whose DNA didn't match up to the real Anastasia (who had travels of her own, across the motels of America with a thick-eared patron at the wheel, before leaving him penniless and clotheless in Ohio).
I am Billly Pilgrim, at the beginning and the end, in Cinderella's boots and a dancing monkey's coat.
I am Ambrose Bierce, leaning against Mexican stone, waiting for the shots that shoot me to rags; I am a gringo, beating old age, disease or falling down the cellar stairs. I am hoping for epiphanies from evading being known. I am dreaming of all those who walk into the fire rather than into the spotlight. Those that spend a decade in bed or having tea at their Mum's instead of publicly grinding out results. Those that evade, by design or accident, ever being finished. I am van Gogh's destroyed canvasses, Genet's burnt manuscripts, Garbo walking away at forty-four. I am the idea that leaves the brain and expires.
posted by The Legendary Black Marquis at 8:21 pm
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