REPORT A PROBLEM
I find the days crawling up to meet me a daunting responsibility. They stare at me, waiting. They stand around expecting me to be the voice that'll galvanize, but I'm not a voice to bring anything together. I stand apart. I wish I could blend the music so desperately in need of unification. That which plays as a distance parody of reality inside my head conveys only to me the impossibility of coming together with anyone or anything let alone myself. A mystery lives at the root of my disquiet. It breeds dissatisfaction of a sort no one can heal.
How do you protect something that's not going anywhere, that doesn't really exist anywhere but in a virtual sense of reality, like a dream with arms originating from the heart of soul, stretching outward in a way that one could never explain, arms that only barely materialize, like a poorly remembered password, reaching out for something not articulated. You know this process. It's gone on your whole life. You've enlisted many people to its cause. The purpose of which was to build a concept of destruction that no one could pull apart before it was too late and beyond reproach.
Too lightly passed over. The eyes rode the path across the abyss where failure reigns like a malevolent god angry at everything, Satan above all, thumbing its nose at the lie that's prevailed for far too long. It's easy now. One closes their eyes and takes a step. Everyone said that step could never be taken without dire consequences, but here you are; you took that step. Where are you? Yes, tell us all where you've found yourself. Where did this step take you? We're all curious. Was it a lie itself, or does some particle of truth exist there?
Could this actually happen? Could the pulse that originated eons ago fade away and become a video game? Are we destined to lay in wait of the great truth, only to be forced to reconcile yet another colossal lie made flesh in the death of hope? We've bared our souls for the grief to be scratched off by rabid beasts that were once our closest friends. We died in that moment we decided they were our friends in the first place. No one really has friends like that. They don't exist but in a realm where video games reign supreme.
The young man took his hat off. The ones watching thought this was part of the trick. It contains the seed of truth, the magicians secret tool that no magician ever reveals, lest he die to his own trade to become a mere shadow in the backlog where those companies that hire funny clowns for kids' parties still live in the Yellow Pages. Well, everything is yellowing now. Fall is here in this special season we've lived for so long not even Google knows where it is. He took his hat off, smiled and walked away, this time for good.
All done. We can all go home now. Outside a light snow is falling. The sound of a song is drifting in and out of hearing. Someone somewhere is singing. They found the grist to sing apparently, where everyone else is crouched in shock, more disbelief than anything really, but whatever they're feeling the state of affairs is vivid; the drop on the minds of those who thought this could never happen is here. No one is exempt. No one will get out of this contract. I guess it's for the best. In the name of love, we've found nihilism.
Could the ground be closer? Am I connected sufficiently to ask? Whirl-i-gig skies, a tumbledown of habits thrown to the winds. All gone now, ventilated. The clean body hardly knows itself; no matter. Time is of the essence to complete the cycle. Many have waited patiently. They deserve to be honored with a proper reply. Consequences may feel dim to crystal clarity. Eyes protracted to appear blind are easy tells. Time is not. Okay. I look down. It looks up. A meeting has been scheduled. I'm not privy to the time or location; I'm sure I'll find out.
The calling was placed in back of the voice, yet the constituency knew; they heard by not hearing. Underlying the banality of words lives the true voice inside intent that has nothing whatsoever to do with keeping in line with the sane complexities we adore, rather the heavy interlocked web that remains unseen, unfelt, unheeded by those who must get to the train on time, feeling only tracks of waste and the biting electricity feeding the worms we keep as steel pets. It lives beneath in the realms kept sacrosanct and ever so hidden under the din of Sunday chapels.
You dip it in. Goes deep. All the mind goes to the infection like a groupie mob on the Stones. Ramifications are innumerable, but there's an out. It can be found in the midst of confusion, the best distraction anywhere. The infection must run its course. A street invites you. Why not go? It's too mundane here. If you took other streets it might not work out. I think it's best to take the offer. Keeping tabs with all the ideas being offered is too daunting. It wears a person out. No. Go with the offer. What can you lose?
One supposes. A click of an idea flashes red, the indisputable rash of ecstasy or the dumbing down so typical of the status quo when it has to go really bad; the pistons start pumping like mad. Your car is ready to race up Everest. One feels very close to the angelic realm or the reactive core when crank dribbles up the spine and makes faces at your god particles situated around the house, pictures of a oh-so-serious Jesus glowering over the sin-ridden house, or one of the Popes, you can never predict which one it'll be.
Yeah, it slithers in. The screen is unveiled. The movie begins. Clearly something new. They told you it would be life-changing, like getting sucked off by L. Ron Hubbard or something like that. It pricks the fire you thought was out. It was just waiting for you to feel it. It never goes out. The time makes itself apparent as necessary to heed. No moment must be wasted, or you'll be wasted. The last hurdle is coming up. You don't want to be used like a paper cup at an office drinking fountain. No way. You want it all.
It trolls you, sees you as you stoop, making light of the day's value in the shadows parading, a chairoscro life; sharp lines define its appetite, how it carves you in silence, tucked away in the deepest, most attractive shadow. In its own time it moves, takes its satisfaction. You won't even know how it devours you. It's important that you stay alive, important that you never feel 100%, that you're always poor in some regard. Control demands this. The Order demands this. You can bicker all you want, even send a letter to your congressman. No one cares.
One is always appreciative of the design that makes you look fabulous, just remarkable, so impressive, hanging like a damp, woolen, workout sock in the larder next to the decaying rabbit carcasses. You see what you need to see. Politeness is vital. You must always smile, be at your best, for they will come unexpected, and you'd better be ready. What they tell you is what you need to embrace. They'll encourage you to keep up the good work. "The way you look is wonderful. We're so impressed by your progress." And they will leave you to your programmed decay.
The nudge occurs, yanks you toward a new direction, an unexpected one. The boat is filling up. People aboard are anxious to get underway. You didn't expect this turn, did you? They say a storm is on the horizon. Of course, they always say that. Pessimists. One has to embark with a positive head. The stakes involved are sky high. There's no getting away. The destination is across a wide gulf, water and a gulf of ideas. The insurrection will have an effect. No telling what will happen on the other side. That's the fun of it, and the horror.
She said she'd be waiting. I smiled and said, okay. Something said otherwise. A disquieting feeling tingled in the back of my mind, like the feeling of a new cold sore coming on. Yes, this sore will bring on a wave, the like of which has only been dreamt by the radical left, back when they had the gumption to actually put their ideas to work. She knows this. That's probably the reason I've stuck with her. I've taken all her ideas to heart, even to the point of redesigning parts of my life. There it is again, that disquiet.
There's a great deal of fun playing with dangerous ideas, like playing with matches as a kid in our old barn. You knew if you dropped it the whole structure would go up. It terrified you, but it also excited you. It gave a feeling of the kind of power your mother had no way of redacting, pushing it away, making you ashamed for having such a thought. You held that match until it burned your finger. Even then, you didn't drop it. You never did drop it. Then. But that was then. This is now. Time to drop it.
Maybe we can try again? It didn't work. Try as we might, several times, it just didn't fly. One could blame this or that, but I don't think anything or anyone is to blame. Sometimes a certain mixture of things doesn't work. It produces a freak, of sorts, something that won't live very long, no matter how much you try to nurture it. The overall feeling is one of despair. What must I do? How can I make this kind of thing work? A lot of folk have said this. They kept saying it, until their voices faded for good.
I fixed my face for a private bludgeoning by decisions yet unmade, wrapped in tiny bundles, to be opened in the heat of invention, as the need arises, by the appropriate keys. Certainly, I'm kept sound in the belly of the monster's mind; how it moves through me depends on how well I digest the keys, and how well I accept the new faces. Each face has a birth. Each birth has a life all its own to realize itself through actions yet untaken. It's all there, though. All the necessities are locked in place, waiting for the right trigger.
Can you follow the edge of a potato chip and comprehend the mobius strip, lay down your hubris for the appropriate humility for understanding and have a good dinner waiting for no one at 6? It's a difficult proposition, one that taxes even the hardiest. First, to understand what you're doing is difficult, then to carry it out. Whoa. It's a masters task; one that forges the Master from the Initiate. Granted, there are steps one has to take. Laid down in a careful order, they represent a direction many attempt but few follow through to satisfaction, but for whom?
There and there go the cryptic minds, and they all got a face full. Made over, each and everyone as they feared and hoped simultaneously, there was a new road about to be trod, but no one was prepared for the inevitability no one could even guess. The scenes started out normally enough and then morphed into a broad line of tables filled to overflowing with seductive treats the whole family would banish from their churches. I said it was about time for something new to come out of the crucible. I didn't expect that, but I got it, bigtime.
I see your mind. My eye peers inside yours. Yours peers inside mine. We see many things alike. The kaleidoscope we create merges myriad carousels; some have swings, some have boats, some have rocket ships, some have nothing but dreams. We see into a vast realm. Touches of our flames lick the dried tinders of our private skeletons we've laid to rest, and we set them ablaze. It's time. Tears shed are dried in jubilation of release. We've come too far to stop now. There is much to do. So many constructions. So many destructions. We collect ourselves. We belong.
How marvelous it is, and how terrifying it is to see the truth behind all the curtains we've constructed over time so meticulously, so painstakingly. Maybe you've seen the truth in dream, in visions, a bit of it, a flash, a glint, then it goes away, but what you saw for an instant, stays. To look at that truth in the bald sun with no blinders takes a certain grit. You build that grit over time, and I mean a long time. You partitioned things so carefully it was difficult to deconstruct the whole machine, but you did it. Flash.
Due to the truth being what it is in the story that's very similar to my story in a seminal way, that made me feel good, made me pull back and see all the screens on which I played my story, but who was it that was really telling the tale? Who sat in the booth controlling all the projectors? The screens were bright. They told bold tales, tales of adventure, tales of love. But whose tales were they? The 'you' that sat in the dark. The 'you' that needed those tales. Time for that 'you' to stand up. You.
Two faces, three faces, no, four, two, one face, no, all the ones; they swing the darkness into light; comets of the head diffused into gibbering whispers, this way and that. You go this way. They go that way. Who follows? You follow, then them, then you, then none, then all follow. Follow what? Down to the cellar next to the pickling vegetables and fruits. You feel you belong there. There's camaraderie there, a oneness. They're all looking at you, but they don't see you. One, two, no, three, then four, three again, no, how to say? Down. Up. There.
How many days do we have onside the days we feel we've had or the days upcoming that live in the imagination or in another dimension or on another planet? Where are we going in these days we've packed away in our rucksacks? There are quite a few rucksacks, aren't there? They line the walls of our private basements next to the rooms where we keep our fermenting ideas that we dare not realize for fear of blowing up this private realm wherein we live most of the time. How do we dance around this? It must get very close.
So it lives on, determining the motion we embrace on a daily basis. Rounding the wheel, we venture into space unlikely to be tracked by the intrepid and brave onlookers we despise; all is well. In this dark realm the divide between sanity and insanity is diffuse, purposefully so. Without this ambiguity we'd be in dire straits. Lucky for us it doesn't matter whether we're mad as haters or sane as certified public accountants. Accountable and deliverable in a moment's notice, this thing that goes round, I'd like to touch it just once. I know it sees me. I'm caught.
I am in a severe cut of mind on a slice of darkness with a sneer I cannot avoid. In a whirl of questions, I'm posed with an answer that terrifies. With what conception of morality must I bear the weight concealed under layers of ambivalence like a massive onion rolling in vacuum, a moon of my private earth I'd like to destroy? Come what come may, it stays in its oblong unpredictable orbit. I carefully watch what it watches from a valued distance, given decades of clear, concise observations, yet no amount of experience accesses me to its eyes.
Servant to the idea, vaguely focused, rendered in flashes during moments when all you want is to eat a sandwich, it lands with a thud on a spatter of the bombed present. One can only chew the best they can, trying not to choke. How the wild momentum drives home its necessities, still a complete mystery, plays a music I love and hate. How vivid one rides this float of opposites on the parade thru town where all the onlookers are eyeless by necessity, lest they truly see the truth that must conceal itself at all costs. Individuation is costly.
It feels like this, that which cannot be felt otherwise, in a dither of external stimuli none of what is felt matters, but that which pulses from the inner sanctum, that hallowed realm of those who answer to that which cannot be articulated but felt. Yet again, that which is felt via articulation is not the thing; the thing is the core, the unseen, that little man in green overalls working like mad cranking the levels this way and that, all day, all night. He is the minister of the true reality. Don't ask who he works for. You know.
Lying functions the days as the metronome, a flash tennis match in the dark, harsh rhythms, each minute, second, millisecond, on and down, the crux of reality stoops as if to please the liar. People want you to be as if you don't, and we do; we don't. Slide down the faces we recreate as the faces we say we know, but we don't, yet we want to know them. Impossible. Faces are blotted out in a mirror that's blackened for fear of really seeing. Not allowed. Seeing is forbidden. We can imagine, though, in our virtual reality goggles. Flash.
Violence sits right there at the edge of his flesh, waiting to be called. Eyes grant light an insult to its bearer of hope, sutured to the amorphous soul perched, eager for fun in exclusion of the right to be human; it's gone another way, where the wild has taught the eyes eminently how to eat, the wild inside the forest tucked like a storm that never abates in the core of righteousness without a god, without the fervent call to a place on an island no one's found, sought continually, afraid of really finding it. When found, just run.
The Tip Jar