Monera Mason is a mischief-maker.  Her work includes: starting questionable cults with notorious software gurus, writing abstract fiction, catalyzing shenanigans which she deploys on unsuspecting bystanders in the City of Neon. 

On Reading Victor Hugo Everywhere

When in San Francisco, one poetically inclined should pilgrimage to City Lights Book Store.  At least they should in my myopic worldview where words come alive on pages, fomenting revolution.  San Francisco's ethos, its hearth, it's unnerving questioning of all of "the mans," is corporally embodied in the three stories that are City Lights.  

The poetry room tucked up a staircase past the general fiction:  uncharted, especially when you live in the book-locked land of neon and glitter whose only maps are Waze and whose books are offerings at B&N.  So it was there that I found her, this epic poem of God and Satan penned by Victor Hugo, the godfather of literary uprisings-. Her cream-colored spine defied hippocampal catalog of Hugo's work. Her contents, Blake Violent imagery.  

Body Electric! Straight shot of adrenaline. Spinning out that way I do when I feel the first tendrils of passion.  She and I were to become close friends, her body then living amongst metastasizing marginalia, adamantine words against quotidian pulp, the fits, and starts of reading defining our courtship.  She was the kind who kept her secrets in places so visible, mirabile dictu that you missed it on the first read through.  

Now imagine reading her in our daily province, marred by the conversations of families locked into the tedium of paternal rituals.  Should I shield her from such banality, protect that which is us? Immured with bright orange earplugs, I drive us into silence. To that place where I can focus on her every curve.  The way she grasps outlines, oracles that floor you. Would she find this isolation abusive?

I wonder, then, how compersion would feel.  Should I share her beauty with the world? It's ridiculous because she never was and never can be mine.  She was barely Hugo's, and that was on his deathbed. I am a stubborn elitist but one who challenges her constructs frequently.  I wonder how can I ever live in a world where such a woman would freely roam in the public consciousness if I have her ever cloistered.

Into the sun she must go, our bilingual philosopher delphic nymph.  If you feel so inspired to read "God and the End of Satan," and you need someone to talk to about her, I am here ready to engage.

Today Nothing Gets Done

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