EPISODE 5: The Astounded Pale
There resides within Chalice Sinclearly an intrigue, the sort of which I can only imagine would get up under the skin of a reclusive cinematographer who is addicted to the recollections of a bipolar mother’s forbidden pleasures, and who has quite recently handed his talent over to an Icelandic-scribed screenplay about the too grateful ghost of an old Chicago Blues man whose lyricism is the upshot of a lecherous virginity. … Maybe it’s more an impulse than an intrigue, really, like that which backs the sickly sweet schemes of a self-swallow into a corner of the souring saliva swelling and simulating as a wannabe interloper amidst the anti-scenario of any single valid security – puts them suckers’ backs to those soluble walls and, with a silence salaciously devoid of nonsense, spooks them even further from the truth. … There resides within Chalice a predilection that aches to be inched into description where it might stand to declassify the subterranean sensibility, and show that there is within the inescapable possession of his writerly ambitions a wayward wish, one that rears itself as an immediate challenge to the potentiality of his impish voice ever being elevated in the haughty presence of a literary system inexcusably based in the metaphor-slacked justice of a selfishly surmised sympathy.
Understand, friends: Chalice can comprehend no greater wish a daily fondler of the pen might have other than to hold clout and clarity in the mind and soul of the Lone Wolf. With a well-calculated indifference that resigns its anonymity-seeking soul to a survival just outside our heartfelt interpretations of tears and holidays, with a blasé sway that bespeaks its affinity-rebuffing soul directly upon the very edge of our everyday reactions to unwanted overtime hours and much needed rough sex, the Lone Wolf stands for Chalice emblematic of what cultivates the curious draw of subtle unease. The Lone Wolf stands as Chalice’s beacon, as the unusual condition he must aspire to risk his pride for.
O, they are out there, those aficionados of good hiding spots who make believable his lusted-for readership. They linger out there secreted away in windowless basements; oddly comforted down those many stairs by the ever-encroaching dankness of untouched possibilities – downstairs where he or she plays luminary, designing a posthumous structure to the confirmation of exquisiteness as being the gist of what it is to be isolated. The Lone Wolf is the astounded pale you catch from the corner of your eye as he pokes his face out a sec from behind a second or third floor window’s sunburned and brittle lace curtain – the waver, the aftermath, in that crumbly curtain as you come to stare at it straight on offers sure proof of question-as-finest-answer in this pissant world wherein the sad truth is we perceive before we spirit.
They are not inexpert, these of a deep minority who seem bizarrely chosen – they survey the words fated to the hollow of a Jethro Tull lyric’s mold to reinforce the lesson they continue to attain from the manifestation of peculiarity within their perception of the self as a whole (that’s whole with a “W”, which you here as a reader no doubt plainly see; however, this parenthetical statement is for my imaginary listeners who I fear could easily mishear). And thusly, my dear and mostly appreciated friends, they exist advantaged amongst us. Theirs are the sights that lay measure to the endeavor of Chalice’s vision. They are the freaks others on their blocks – hell, in their own families – never gossip about, never confront with an everyday act of psychiatry. Inside neighborhoods, right next door to family homes, the Lone Wolf lives the life of a true poet’s true hero: a thrill isolated into the granular slo-mo psychology of the unspeakable’s resolve.