Cease, cows, life is short!
What a way to end a book!
A blog about lurve in all its manifestations
It was the autumn of my discontent. A time when the ghost of Midas, condemned to forever roam the living world, had come to roost in me. The eternity of aimlessness has mutated him, I can assure you, and instead of gold, which despite the moral of the story would actually have been rather nice, everything I touched during those beknighted months would turn instead to shit. And not regular shit either, massive Mastadonion shit. Shit so voluminous and so smelly that even though it was only allegorical it still managed to drive all the sources of happiness right on out of my life. They were dark days, desperate days. Days so heavy with the burden of despondence that waking up was more unpleasant than dreams of having died.
I have never fully recovered, to be honest. Life is probably better than it has ever been, in strictly socially viable terms, at least, but the sense of invulnerability is never coming back. This is a good thing, I’m sure I’ll be told, and in all earnestness too, I know we are basically helpless shapes just floating aimlessly within our own illusions of control, but it’s not. Not really. Not even for a minute. Invincibility is the greatest of all highs, you see. It’s the best of feelings. It’s top of the charts and will never ever be displaced. When you feel invincible you look at the world like it’s a puzzle you can solve, as opposed to one that you can’t even begin to understand. You know shit, when the feeling of invincibility is upon you, you believe shit. And belief, my god, is the strongest of all temptations. Belief, ultimately, is the root cause of all good and evil in the world, and the feeling of invincibility, both good and evil, much like the perfect woman, is ultimately a product of belief. But whatever it is, it was quite clearly upon me just when the mutated ghost of Midas the cursed king chose to hole up where my soul used to live.
Arguably, it was gods way, or the world’s way, or fate’s way of setting me straight and/or extracting the pomposity out of me. But one would have to believe in all those fancy things to subscribe to such an easy interpretation. I don’t know why it happened or to what end… I just know that it did come to pass and almost a decade later I’m still reeling from the assault.
There were lessons learnt… for better or worse… lessons that define whatthefuck I now am. I have no way of knowing whether I drew the right conclusions or not, because the lessons don’t really ever stop coming as long as you live, but one of the lessons itself is to make a fucking decision and then fucking stick to it because whether it works or not is not really up to you anyway and indecision is one of the worst weaknesses a person can be afflicted with. Also learnt that love mustMUSTmust always be embraced with your eyes open wider than your heart. And also that you can’t really help but be blinded by love. How the two can go hand in hand is a mystery to me, but believe me when I tell you, they can. And although even then love is 70 parts pain to 30 parts pleasure, once its chosen rather than assumed, it’s a lot more meaningful.
But most important, and perhaps also the most powerful of all the worms of wisdom Midas planted in me before he finally, mercifully left, is that we are not invulnerable, we just are not. Maybe we aren’t meant to be maybe we are incapable of it, but the bottom line is that the shit will hit the fan and it will catch us not only without an umbrella but with our pants down in a pool of quicksand which we will be unable to get out of ourselves and so we mustMustmust sink in, be submerged, drown and die and be absorbed in order to survive and get back up on our feet again. But none of this, none of the lessons/worms of wisdom can ever actually help because once the stupor of invincibility has been experienced, the rest of our lives our spent hung over from it. You will never ever stop missing it, or craving it, and you will never ever be able to experience it again because as soon as you do, the worms of wisdom will make you weary and clip your wings before they can even fully sprout and you will live the rest of your days in a state of Psuedo-existence, where you can never have what you want and know it too.
Don’t stop comin’ up, don’t stop comin’ up, you don’t stop comin’ up, don’t stop comin’ up, you don’t stop comin’ up don’t stop comin’ up, you don’t stop.
Hydra. You've become your favorite monster. I hope you notice. But i know you won't.
As civilizations go, ours sucks.
Look at it this way, what artifacts are we leaving behind for the future of mankind to find? I don't mean the gigantic buildings, they most probably will not survive the calamity that ends it all whether it be a global flood or a nuclear war but even if they do they won't be too different in grandeur and the information they provide than the pyramids, for instance, or the Easter island heads… huge things made by man for reasons that make no sense a millennium later. Hard drives are sturdy, they might make it.
But then who knows if newman will have invented electricity or choose to go a less dubious route? Then what will they be to them, our hard drives full of memories? Paper weights? Weapons! Yes, head bashers! Our violent history will continue to be used for violence and so we will continue to fulfill our own prophecy long after we have ceased to be. But what else… the time capsule with a coke bottle and a playboy won't really help much. Maybe newman won't like the taste of carbonated caffeine, maybe tits won't tickle his fancy quite like they do ours… I mean if I was going to put my money on it, I'd expect newman to be at least as different from us as we are from oldman, or what we know of oldman and we don't know much, really, not much at all.
And so I suppose newman will also be in awe of whatever he will find of ours, wrecked buildings and titty mags… noxious air and nuclear waste… maybe there should be a manual etched into the very heart of the earth or the sky or something, anything that can withstand the tests of time. Cockroaches! Yes we should write the story of our follies in Roach DNA and at least try to warn the ones who will become the unwitting heirs to our rather miserable legacy. Sure it's never been done before and humanity has been left unto its own devices to figure out how to get where we are headed. But never before has the legacy of a civilization to the ones to follow been the power of killing the world itself. We can, if we wanna, you know, right? We can kill the world in a day or two, totally annihilate it and prolly upset the balance enough to take the whole universe along. Maybe that's what god wants (If there is a god). It sure as shit seems like what humans want. And since we are supposedly created in his image, is it really too far fetched to assume that the almighty is starving for a little global destruction? We are created to destroy. We are Destructoids! Human is too pussy a word to express what we are. Human is for little furry animals and fat short aunties with big big smiles. The human race is not human at all, it's actually Alien. We are the extraterrestrials who have landed on this earth of plant life and animal life and harmonious life and gorgeous life to grow nukes out of its bosom to destroy it. We are certainly poetic in our violence but violent is our nature and so, yes we will, as we have before, bring the world to a ruin, the earth to its knees and God, perhaps, God to his feet in a frenzy of applause and even as we ourselves rather poetically get destroyed by the very thing we ourselves created, we will, I am sure, I am absolutely fucking certain, find comfort in knowing that if our creations can destroy us than we perhaps can destroy our creator.
I have loved you, my dear torn up stranger. I must have or else it wouldn’t feel this good to be rid of you.
Nor would it ache, quite as much.
It is important to be slow. Slow and deliberate. Your motions cannot be haphazard, or meaningless. When you push forward it cannot be just to probe deeper beneath the dying embers. What the dying embers signify must be understood. When you trace a circle in the ashes you must know what the ashes mean and what the circle implies.
It is important to know.
And to remember.
Nostalgia, like weed, can be found in the silliest of places. Stuck to the bottom of your underwear drawer, for instance. Or inside the cassette playing part of your childhood stereo. Secret stashes which you don’t even remember but you keep because you know you never know. You never know when you will need it, you never know when it will want you. Underneath the ashes of a happy bonfire, glowing orange/gray, fizzling, sizzling, threatening to die, unhappy nostalgia. Unhappy and unforgiving… particularly unforgiving. When it rises up to face you… it’s not the smoke that makes your eyes water.
She used to be loved. She still is, but that was different, you see. Different. And that does, sadly, make all the fucking difference. This is good. This is safe and this is comforting and this is calm but that… that was unreal. That was smack dab stolen out of the fucking movies, man. There was blood involved. Love letters written in blood. Pigeon or human was never clearly established but fuck! Love letters written in blood! There was anger and there was passion. This is great, this is very very nice and comfy, but that… that was fucking different. Running away was seriously considered an option… taking on the whole fucking world was seriously considered an option… dying for it was seriously considered an option. This is very very wholesome, very healthy, hygienic and socially acceptable, this is great, really, I swear this is. But that… damn! That was different.
That was different and that is why that is what she sifts to as she sifts through these ashes of the first bonfire her son ever built. That is what glows orange/gray, fizzles, sizzles and threatens to die. But never does. It simmers slowly always beneath the retinas of her eyes, like image-burn on a TV screen, permanently scarring the view. This is better… Lord, so much fucking better… this is rewarding and fulfilling and so damn perfect… but that was different.
That was different and she will never ever know how different her life could have been no matter how many bonfires she sits by and pokes through. That was different and the strength it takes, the stubbornness to let it be, let it lie and yet not die, to let it slowly simmer beneath the retinas of her eyes is breaking my heart.
It is important to be slow. And deliberate. I grab a stick and poke the other end of the ash-pile. I watch her draw a semi-circle around the pile and I watch her stop and I watch as she lingers uncertain before slowly, deliberately, cutting back across and severing the circle in half. I see her hand tremble for a portion of a second. Just long enough to blame it on the chill December night.
This is bloody brilliant, I tell you. This is happiness, the epitome of happiness, the very fucking soul of happiness. This is going to be a legacy, this going to be everything she is ever going to have and this is enough, this is more than enough, this is benediction, this is blessing, this is god’s own warm and tender fucking embrace. But that was different. That was different and for all that this may be it will always be that which she will look for and it will always be that which she will bury beneath every ash-pile of every bonfire that she will ever sit by.
It is important to know, you see, what the embers imply. It is important to remember.