Monday, October 19, 2009
Fucksters
The murmur of silence awakens. Did my delicate probing sooth the dragon? Or was an ember left to disintegrate my faults, letting the the rhythm of myth relocate its influence? A troubled scholar approaches my cavern and taps a smothered beat to signify awareness. I approach him, embarking on a journey from the shadows, one that hints at light, assumes its presence beyond a divine firmament. Dripping of the faucet of life, my body puddles above the ground, my mind surrounds it, encases it, protects it. I am aware of the bright traveler's vest, encoded with the Sun and the Moon on each breast, it begins to peal off, becoming the ground on which it lands. What is left is a furnace, a fiery liberator heating the land, surpassing the natural form, freeing the essence. My life force begins to evaporate, nimbus drenching the fire from which it gave birth. The synthesis is complete, two forms existing as one and all and timelessly nothing.
“The right button unlocks the box.”
I’ll let everyone do their own shit. Drugs and Shit. Sex and Shit. Thought and shit. But if those bitches aren’t able to do their own shit, why am I the one to suffer trying to control them? Nudging them in the right direction. Why do I have to listen to them weep? First of all they all think I’m burned out, but their so burned out that they know nothing but how to conspire. What I do is not merely conspiracy. It is structured with mounds of data. Constant analyzation. You think I’m not able to immediately identify your measly attempt at a hidden psychology? You lack of intrigue fails miserably to impress me. I wonder how these individuals are able to entertain, if any sort, a female relationship. The only resolution is that the female sect of this species is even more delusional and burned out than them. So, if there was a competition of entertainment between myself and you, overlapping an infinite time span, my secret, which can never be revealed to myself, will eventually take authority.
As he thought this, Haden noticed the fantastic wind forcing a line of sprouting bushes almost to the ground. Bending them sideways. That is what life does, he said to himself. Time. It forces you back to where you came. Even when you’re barely alive. Still learning to be alive. And when you finally learn it all, just before you do, you’re uprooted to make way for condos and shit. Not brought back. After a lifetime of being pushed into the Earth, from the side, you are finally just ripped from existence. Nothing remains but another dead rose, colorless, and quickly decomposing in the corner of a gutter somewhere. Or forgotten among the dust in someone’s basement. It is rare that any of us ever return truly to the Earth. He stared at the city.
“There is evil.”
And if you are evil, you will spend the time needed to understand. You will live as many lives as necessary, until you get it. And each one more hellish than the last. Each one forcing you back even more, even harder. With each life, the wind grows stronger and stronger, and you try harder and harder to bend yourself back. To straighten yourself, against the wind, the devil. Because you think its right. Because generations of Adams and Eves have told me that it is possible to fight. It is possible to win. That there is some ancient, holy war; a greater good that we all must deserve-and work for. There is no winning though. People don’t realize this. There is only acceptance. You must simply let the wind return you to the Earth. Allow it to happen. All we can hope for is that the rose that we all grow to be is not just left colorless in the street. But that it is preserved by a life form and respected. That the idea, even long after the physical matter, the petals and bud have deteriorated, is allowed to flourish even more exceptionally than when the rose was in bloom.
Haden felt, for a moment, desire for a student. Another mind sitting beside him, listening, absorbing. He would like for that student to also respond, but he considered that it would not always matter. There is a difference between a lack of response or verbal promotion of the topic that is fueled by a lack of understanding and one that is fueled by connection. The best relationship holds silence as a reflection, not as something that induces unneeded paranoia or nervosa. Those relationships that consider the latter never succeed. They are more like a drug addiction, or any sort of trip than a relationship. He thought again of the man he had met, Tai. It seemed that his constant conspiring smeared the possibility of him ever realizing how to live. Always trying to overthrow some invisible competition. Those types of people, Haden knew, would never learn. It seemed to be vastly encoded within the carbon molecules of their chemical structure. He remembered the Elegant Universe. But instead of strings, he thought of gradually darkening shades. Little tiny sunglasses that existed at the basic level of certain people.
“People like Tai.”
Or a gradually thickening blindfold of fabric. Starting of as silk when they grew to be two years of age and eventually evolving, as the person evolves…and grows, into tightly woven wool.
These are the people that will probably never return to the Earth.
“They rule the Earth.”
Just as he saw that it seemed impossible for them to form a spiritual connection with another. He knew that was what made friendship. Existing on the same plane. “I guess…” he said out loud, that Tai and them, who are unable to transcend planes and exist on all planes at once, who are stuck on one plane, will find many people on that plane. Many people to connect with. But most of them have dropped too many hallucinogenic chemicals into their brain to establish true, spiritual connections with any body. He went outside to piss, thinking of cats.
As he stood there, letting the outrageous wind pillow against his back, whizzing on the ocean, he came to a strange realization. This was the exact spot where he had been with Flora once. Sitting with one another. Within each other in the front seat of that old boat that vaguely resembled a car. He remembered her attitude that night. It stood out, as it always did in his mind. It was just one among the many Flora Simones that he knew. That night she was sinister. Chain smoking her Benson and Hedges but never letting you see it as a flaw. He vaguely remembered the circumstances of their rendezvous , but he remembered them being emotionally dramatic and himself being slightly angered. If not furious. And then he remembered that his anger only grew as the night went on and when she finally dropped him off at his house, the kiss he gave her was passionless. Full of self created frustration. He knew that the frustration must have been severely justified, but the stimulus did not occur that night. It was nothing she did or said, it was what had scarred their past. Flora was able to overcome their historical incongruence’s and simply appreciate the moment that they were sharing. Haden, on the other hand, remained somewhat trapped in a chaotic flux of emotion. It was hard for him to forget. For him to overcome the city block of warehouses full of visions and illusions that lined his memories. And it became harder when she asked him, “Would you like to fuck me?” To this, he had no answer. Either way would be a doorway for Flora to use into his mind. And if he said yes, he knew it wouldn’t matter. She would not fuck him. Not here. Not now. But he still held her, as he always did, as he always would. And when he peered into her eyes, he knew that there was not a more perfect shade of green ever to exist.
“I wish…” He sighed and almost said it aloud, verbalizing it to relate emphasis. To italicize. I wish she were here right now to be my student.
But she was too stubborn to ever believe his words. She never listened. She only questioned.
“Who are you?”
What kind of question is that? Haden thought about answering, but became hesitant. He knew of her game but also that he must play. He could not win because he loved her. He could not forfeit because he loved her. But could he bring himself to loose? Did loving her mean sacrificing part of himself? He was sick of these silly contests, but at the same time it was this trait for which he had fallen. But he was easily influenced, and being strong minded as Flora was, he had overcome him and now he was stuck.
I’ll let everyone do their own shit. Drugs and Shit. Sex and Shit. Thought and shit. But if those bitches aren’t able to do their own shit, why am I the one to suffer trying to control them? Nudging them in the right direction. Why do I have to listen to them weep? First of all they all think I’m burned out, but their so burned out that they know nothing but how to conspire. What I do is not merely conspiracy. It is structured with mounds of data. Constant analyzation. You think I’m not able to immediately identify your measly attempt at a hidden psychology? You lack of intrigue fails miserably to impress me. I wonder how these individuals are able to entertain, if any sort, a female relationship. The only resolution is that the female sect of this species is even more delusional and burned out than them. So, if there was a competition of entertainment between myself and you, overlapping an infinite time span, my secret, which can never be revealed to myself, will eventually take authority.
As he thought this, Haden noticed the fantastic wind forcing a line of sprouting bushes almost to the ground. Bending them sideways. That is what life does, he said to himself. Time. It forces you back to where you came. Even when you’re barely alive. Still learning to be alive. And when you finally learn it all, just before you do, you’re uprooted to make way for condos and shit. Not brought back. After a lifetime of being pushed into the Earth, from the side, you are finally just ripped from existence. Nothing remains but another dead rose, colorless, and quickly decomposing in the corner of a gutter somewhere. Or forgotten among the dust in someone’s basement. It is rare that any of us ever return truly to the Earth. He stared at the city.
“There is evil.”
And if you are evil, you will spend the time needed to understand. You will live as many lives as necessary, until you get it. And each one more hellish than the last. Each one forcing you back even more, even harder. With each life, the wind grows stronger and stronger, and you try harder and harder to bend yourself back. To straighten yourself, against the wind, the devil. Because you think its right. Because generations of Adams and Eves have told me that it is possible to fight. It is possible to win. That there is some ancient, holy war; a greater good that we all must deserve-and work for. There is no winning though. People don’t realize this. There is only acceptance. You must simply let the wind return you to the Earth. Allow it to happen. All we can hope for is that the rose that we all grow to be is not just left colorless in the street. But that it is preserved by a life form and respected. That the idea, even long after the physical matter, the petals and bud have deteriorated, is allowed to flourish even more exceptionally than when the rose was in bloom.
Haden felt, for a moment, desire for a student. Another mind sitting beside him, listening, absorbing. He would like for that student to also respond, but he considered that it would not always matter. There is a difference between a lack of response or verbal promotion of the topic that is fueled by a lack of understanding and one that is fueled by connection. The best relationship holds silence as a reflection, not as something that induces unneeded paranoia or nervosa. Those relationships that consider the latter never succeed. They are more like a drug addiction, or any sort of trip than a relationship. He thought again of the man he had met, Tai. It seemed that his constant conspiring smeared the possibility of him ever realizing how to live. Always trying to overthrow some invisible competition. Those types of people, Haden knew, would never learn. It seemed to be vastly encoded within the carbon molecules of their chemical structure. He remembered the Elegant Universe. But instead of strings, he thought of gradually darkening shades. Little tiny sunglasses that existed at the basic level of certain people.
“People like Tai.”
Or a gradually thickening blindfold of fabric. Starting of as silk when they grew to be two years of age and eventually evolving, as the person evolves…and grows, into tightly woven wool.
These are the people that will probably never return to the Earth.
“They rule the Earth.”
Just as he saw that it seemed impossible for them to form a spiritual connection with another. He knew that was what made friendship. Existing on the same plane. “I guess…” he said out loud, that Tai and them, who are unable to transcend planes and exist on all planes at once, who are stuck on one plane, will find many people on that plane. Many people to connect with. But most of them have dropped too many hallucinogenic chemicals into their brain to establish true, spiritual connections with any body. He went outside to piss, thinking of cats.
As he stood there, letting the outrageous wind pillow against his back, whizzing on the ocean, he came to a strange realization. This was the exact spot where he had been with Flora once. Sitting with one another. Within each other in the front seat of that old boat that vaguely resembled a car. He remembered her attitude that night. It stood out, as it always did in his mind. It was just one among the many Flora Simones that he knew. That night she was sinister. Chain smoking her Benson and Hedges but never letting you see it as a flaw. He vaguely remembered the circumstances of their rendezvous , but he remembered them being emotionally dramatic and himself being slightly angered. If not furious. And then he remembered that his anger only grew as the night went on and when she finally dropped him off at his house, the kiss he gave her was passionless. Full of self created frustration. He knew that the frustration must have been severely justified, but the stimulus did not occur that night. It was nothing she did or said, it was what had scarred their past. Flora was able to overcome their historical incongruence’s and simply appreciate the moment that they were sharing. Haden, on the other hand, remained somewhat trapped in a chaotic flux of emotion. It was hard for him to forget. For him to overcome the city block of warehouses full of visions and illusions that lined his memories. And it became harder when she asked him, “Would you like to fuck me?” To this, he had no answer. Either way would be a doorway for Flora to use into his mind. And if he said yes, he knew it wouldn’t matter. She would not fuck him. Not here. Not now. But he still held her, as he always did, as he always would. And when he peered into her eyes, he knew that there was not a more perfect shade of green ever to exist.
“I wish…” He sighed and almost said it aloud, verbalizing it to relate emphasis. To italicize. I wish she were here right now to be my student.
But she was too stubborn to ever believe his words. She never listened. She only questioned.
“Who are you?”
What kind of question is that? Haden thought about answering, but became hesitant. He knew of her game but also that he must play. He could not win because he loved her. He could not forfeit because he loved her. But could he bring himself to loose? Did loving her mean sacrificing part of himself? He was sick of these silly contests, but at the same time it was this trait for which he had fallen. But he was easily influenced, and being strong minded as Flora was, he had overcome him and now he was stuck.
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