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Monday, December 19, 2011

For him, logs are everything, this small town dictator, his battledress undone, the cap barely fitting over his still unruly, though greying curls as his enemies corner him in the backyard just by the woodpile, their grievances stretching back to the very beginning of time, the very start of it. And he can only holler and bluster and wave his arms, expecting instant obedience, outraged that the old magic seems to have worn off. And there he is, naked and bleeding now, stuck on top of a pyre, looking just like Guy Fawkes and it's Bonfire Night all over again ..
But who's this jostling for a place at the top? Joan of Arc. Ah how they both love their logs, both require the martyrdom, for the preservation of their stubborn ideals, the sanctification of their egos. They both love their uniforms - for her, a simple sackcloth shift, covering, shapeless and uncomfortable to wear, her hair cut in a boyish bob, almost a tonsure, with the statement wooden cross around her neck, her bare feet, her white legs. The pious and terrified expression that so becomes her.
And who will light the fire beneath their feet? What will be the final hymn they sing as the smoke rises and the air crackles with heat, their flesh crisping and bursting like popping corn? Come on, baby ..

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