REPORT A PROBLEM
The service is filling out for the display of a hubris no one ever anticipated when the invitations were sent out. Broadening like a mutant wildflower, in a vast array of eyes turned away, it makes its presence felt like the final fart of a man dying of an overdose of Leave It To Beaver episodes. It sticks to the skin like Liberace. All the mosquitoes rear up and take notice. What's to become of the family Eucharist now? In disgust, priests turn away. The sacrament is complete. Fetuses give thanks. Blind surgeons let their patients know. Salvation is fattening.
Such was the design. It left everyone feeling a bit ill with vertigo. All the lines were directed upward. Eyes fell to, spun like maddened bees to the endpoint. One couldn't really describe the feelings. They all nodded, said it was very innovative, daring, likely to cause a stir, almost certainly a movie of the week. But. After all was said and done, no one knew what to do, so they all jumped, silently, individually. There was nothing left to do. What can one do when the last word is uttered. I mean, it's the last word, for Gods' sake.
We fight as hard as we can. We face off. It comes. It faces off with us. We can't see it. That's our handicap. It sees us. That's our whetstone. We drive ourselves across the battlefield. There's no winning. You can't win against this thing that follows us, that leads us along, that keeps us sharp, though we lament, it is our salvation. It is our living irony. We don't meet this thing until the appointed time that belongs to each of us. We will know it when it comes. We will see it smile, and we will smile back.
Such as it is, we feel we owe ourselves an explanation when the time comes to leave. We can't know when the time is, but we do know. When we quiet ourselves down, when we stop the rabble of secular responsibilities, when we still the engines, all of them, inside and out, then it become clear, often clear too late. Such a funny irony. Some of us, though, will have the moment. We'll take it. It will determine how the next will climb backward, descend from the place of its anticipation, which is normal, and spiral in to the end.
It screams at itself. It wants attention. You have little choice but to give in. You do all the time. You find yourself caving. A mirror hovers just inside your eye. You find your image, the image it wants you to find; you follow that. You follow it into the scream. You hate the scream. You revile it. It cannot be stopped but for one thing. That is the thing you find the hardest to find, to hold, to accept. Into the dark vortex you plunge. Then it comes. It arrives calmly. It says, "You." Silence comes at a price.
Driven to the edge of a cliff we cannot see, cannot feel, cannot know until the final step. The black sun drives us forward. It pulls us in. We are stepped in line to the gears of an unknown force. We can hear its pistons roar. It terrifies. It excites. The engine of its means pumps ambition to the extreme. We feel this pull at our very core. There is nothing to keep us from going but fear, the mind killer. A wall rises. In the fever of our need there is but one option. None other. We are made.
Crap. Inner traffic jam. The streets aren't right. I know where I want to go. The going, though, has been redirected, convoluted beyond a reasonable expectation for a return home visa application. The drivers are overworked and blind. The bosses have given up their sexuality to mob movie reruns, and the wives are in no distress. Their husbands home entertainment systems have been abandoned. Every kid is running amok. The wives are cutting off their hair. Teenagers are no longer looking for a good return on their investments for college, and the learning curve has new discontinuities. Day is done.
It trills. Naturally it penetrates. One expects conception of a sort. That takes time. Patience. One follows the sound. It leads you to the appointed place. Coming together allows the music to form organically. One follows the notes. It's like dancing on a bar of drunken notes toward the stage. All happily metaphorical. You may see the stage in your own way. This allows privacy during connection. How conception occurs takes its own path. You can only follow. The directions are not forthcoming. They occur in their own way in their own time. A defeat of expectation is in order.
He speaks for an ideal held in mind. It has no reality beyond the steps laid out in his head. How he goes according to the ideal is determined by a letting go. The shapes form of their own measure and design. They leave the head of the ideal behind. They become something else. He sees something new. That may please. Often it does not. What comes out was not within. There are two worlds, distinct and utterly disparate. Funny, how this creates a war with sides formerly unseen. Where there was one, now there are two, him and Him.
Beholden to nothing. Nothing beholden to me. Lone wolf. I seek my prey alone. I take my prey conditionally. In the midst of taking, I commiserate with others. We combine in a ferocious circle of pure appetite. Once sated, the round dissolves. I can only speak for me. What the others do, I cannot say. For a time I rear back and wait. I wait in my own brand of light and darkness. I create this place. It creates me. Going forward sketches a page of questions, how, where, why? I leave those to the moment when hunger dictates action.
Climbing up and out you could serve yourself to the idea on a platter made of wishes, in the context of never winning what you play, playing only the highest odds against losing, thus the main event loses itself to the background of a plan that was never made, only dreamt in haste during a DT delerium. I could've made millions on that bet, but I actually lost to winning the advantage, as death took a holiday on a remote island where atomic testing was frequent, and I stood in the clearing in frighteningly sharp focus saying, "It's about time."
You found it in a clearing. You said it called out to you. I believed you. Your method is recognized. It turns the expectations inside out, and one cannot see the beginning for the end, as neither exist. Only the journey. A beginning and ending serve as breakwaters. The ship sailed off the clearing. You created the sea on which it sails. What will come will be a surprise. Life is as much of a surprise as death. Who is to say, "Which comes first?" Both. Neither. You have a challenge here. It's right in your face. No turning back.
Turns all the while you're watching, turns to what you expect, what you imagined, but conditionally. It turns to what serves itself turning by turning to a slight degree off the expected path. It turns to keep you wondering how you're turning, how you're becoming what you're becoming as it turns you turning you into a version that serves it, but only conditionally. In the turning, if one keeps a close eye out, the slight divergence is only seen as a necessary anomaly, necessary to the degree that nothing else could've been done. It keeps its secrets safe in silence.
Thereupon the new discovery, when the sun rose and granted the seers a vivid look at the new land, the next step was taken almost without moving; it was the same step as before, as all the other befores. It was taken inside the taker. What happens next is only history being played out a billion times over. It never changes. It always occurs as it has for eons. There are those who wonder why this happens all the time. They ponder on the choices available. No matter. The trains always arrive. And the camps always welcome them, with love.
You may not know it, but you're being watched. The time will come when an action will be taken. You won't be privy to this time, or this action. It'll come of its own accord, in its own time. One can rebel. You can say, "It's all an injustice." You can yell it out, scream it out on the streets, in the courts, in the bedrooms, no matter. It'll come. It'll have its way. No way around it. It's the shape of things, the infinite order of things. You don't like it? You may as well scream at the moon.
Blind lady stopped on the corner. The light was green. A Boy Scout crossed the street. In the middle of the city a prominent lawyer had a heart attack. A matronly woman started singing in a Quaker Service. At an AA meeting, someone offered to donate their kidney to a sickly Dominican boy. Cheers rose in an empty stadium. In the hallway of the main library of New York City, a dog gave birth two twelve pups. I was watching the backyard at the time. It was peaceful. I became anxious when I saw a meteorite. It gave me gas.
You creep along at a pace that defies any reason balled up and thrown to the winds. You fling yourself at this reason. You grope for it. It spreads itself out from the center as if a tornado grew from its center. It goes like a mad bird full of anger and flame. It redirects you to look where you didn't look before. Panic does that for a person. It strips them down, leaves them outside any expectation they might've held sacrosanct. In the despair of nothing coming, nothing hopeful, you finally hold the secret to who you really are.
There you are in a glowing muddle. The answer you sought is staring at you. You cannot see it yet. It's not moving, not going anywhere; it's patiently waiting. You would be surprised to learn how patient it is. Infinitely so. But this is not your business. It is not your concern how it waits. Your concern is how you you cannot wait, how you must know everything at once, immediately. Patience itself waits patiently. It's a shame how you can't even see that. It'll take something profound to move you to an understanding. That something might even kill you.
Here again, the mark, where it laid in its fashioned vestibule, far away and close up. Out of focus, in sharp clarity, the deviance wears a smile, where, at once being a snarl, now a smirk, some kind of expression, bodes a gesture plunged like a dagger in the heart of my heart, some kind of contagion to be triggered by the flick of an eye saying, Holy, Holy, Holy, from the guts of a dark chamber, long abandoned, occupied by a mind I cannot lose, though I fling it out to the hungry skies, begging for them to feed.
The hills are laced by the rivers of white where I flung my sled a billion times under the humors of a head exploded by a storm that's never stopped. I can see them rising, ever rising from any horizon I choose to ignore. I am swept by the fervor of these crossed storms that boil about the landscape serving my compulsions. I am caught. I am in the room. They took me there, the ones without faces, ones who deem no redemption begotten of a myth. I am stuck in the middle, shackled, with everyone asking me to cook.
You can remember the moment you chose. You can even hold that moment up with some sort of faux nostalgia, hoping, by doing so, it will magically change its infection. You can get as close up and personal as possible. With intent to sever ties, no matter how close you get, it has its way. There was this deal you made, though you deny it repeatedly, and with passion. You signed on the dotted line. You can laugh. You can cry. You can do anything you want to do, but nothing will change. The infection is deep. It guides you.
It's cooking. Every once in a while you check the progress. It's rising slowly. You know it'll do its thing. You have faith. It's the kind of faith you have, the kind, where two plus two equals four. Though, from time to time, and honestly, more times than you care to recall, two plus two equaled anything but four. Nonetheless, cooking proceeds as usual. When the surprise comes, if it comes, it'll come as an advantage and disadvantage. It'll come as a choice, like Monty coming to your private show with his magical curtains, smiling, waiting for you to choose.
Keep my psychedelic baby psychodelicious in the main room escapade; fast as she goes, you gotta have a grip on the diabolical, where her purple fish keep their numbers secure, where habits of the fish don't talk, where mouths have a way of sealing the deals before they're struck, and the bad boys have a way of disappearing. My baby has a gear for every dissolving street sign. I follow every one of them, 'cause I know they'll lead me to the breakwater rainbow, and the pot of gold on the end, just like it says on the cereal box.
You swirl about me, inside me with all crazies of colors, side-winding the gist of nothing held in a secret way, propelled like a missile where I haven't an expectation, blasting me off my center where I cling for fear at times of being outside my roundabout soul, though I teeter commonly, gladly over the edge, begging the abyss to swallow me, vomit my spirit so I can finally see. You are a manner of my mind plunging my heart to explode my mind through all the colors, as the mad wheel keeps turning, firebirds take flight. We swirl.
I hear them. I see them. They they have something to say. You tell me this everyday. You spit words by colors bursting your eyes, your smile, a wheel of burning colors; it burns me to a joy I cannot utter, exclaim or express, yet lives in the flesh of my flesh. Why must reason hold sway? It holds me not. Reason holds nothing but a shadow we leave behind, a gust of wind, a flash of light. We are there. We are here. We find our way. We burn life we find like virgin suns, giving birth to light.
Slowly it moves ahead, but in a way that would surprise you, maybe even shock you. You think you can see it, but you can't. It's disguised. You watch the hands against the dial. You think they tell you a story you can believe. More often than not, you do believe. In some ways, you have to. You've made yourself into a being who needs this kind of reassurance. What does it reassure? How does it reassure? What does it protect? You may laugh at the question. "Well, of course, I know what it protects." You've become good at lying.
Once again the river flows. Through a new crack. There are always new cracks. A drop down of words on a spiral vexation. You could say it's a ride worthy of The Cyclone. Too intense to proscribe, it diverts its secrets in a gust too subtle to see, too powerful to stop. It has its way with me, always has, always will. I vow the infection with a keepsake I hold close to my unseen heart. The locket contains a picture. It depicts my nature, clear as a desert sunrise, sharp as need be to grant myself my chosen identity.
It drips. Stains. The drops. A profound chemistry. There is pride there. The reactions occur without pause. They insinuate the body. There's no way to stop it. You don't want to stop it. It's important to allow it. I sit above it, watching. I didn't start it. No one started it. It follows the rule of necessity. Inevitability. It's always the way. The bugger no one can shake. I frequently laugh at the irony. There's irony everywhere. If I had started it, I'd be damn proud to admit it. Who wouldn't be proud? The whole show is about to end.
It's never a matter of why, just when. Trouble comes handily. It's the nature of the enterprise to create and attract trouble. All the entities of the enterprise act accordingly. Their duty is to the empire. It sits above everything, everyone. It watches. It sees what no human eye can see. It sees inside. There are no sacrosanct secrets. All is revealed. When necessity demands, there is no hesitation, no pause. There is a storm. Then, a calm. To evaluate the process is to delineate a complexity as profound as DNA sequencing. Why bother? It is the soul of us.
You can hope. What is that? An alchemy. Mystery. A boat is launched on a great lake. Waters are deep, deep as the sky. Possibilities. To touch them is to become them. The boat is guided by a secret, a secret only known by all things together. No one part knows. Chemistry. All elements working in synch. Touching is a hand reaching out from the boat. There is no substance to touch, no discernible matter, but the source of all humanity. You are the boat because you need to be. The lake is filled with you. Hope exists by faith.
The end. It has a sweet sound, ringing off its din, but slowly on the bell of the new year, dimming gradually, falling away from its sense of the present, till only a memory remains. I'm motionless on the infinitesimal cusp. It has a way of making me watch, despite my overt disinterest. It gathers me into its audience numbering the lot who find it hard to say goodbye. Goodbyes are plentiful. The age of hello feels shallow, growing thinner. We see far too few of the new, too many of the old, resurrecting themselves with stories of youthful skeletons.
The Tip Jar