Wednesday, July 18, 2012

human suffering 25.18

I can’t ask you questions about the past anymore because you are gone. You were always so much better at remembering the past than I. You didn’t inspire fear, you inspired love. There was a joy in living that cannot be duplicated. When we try to make something that is true and lasting, we discover that which is artificial. I remember Herman standing in the middle of the street with his pants around his ankles as he jacked-off in front of everybody. He was a victim of a struggle which takes place in the theater of his mind. He had purchased his ticket for entry, but was denied entrance. Herman wants a faithful woman. He looks for her on the internet. He hopes that he can have her shipped to his front door, because he is afraid of stepping outside. Herman is hoping to find a monastery in Tibet to begin his spiritual life. He didn’t understand the cold-bloodedness that a war required. Still he would breathe in the toxic fumes of the clouds. He would fight with the stray dogs for the scraps of meat. He is as naked as a savage howling at the moon. Herman needs the earth like we need the sky. Trish was the one that convinced us to move to Southern Illinois. Herman was going to go to school there studying geography or philosophy. Herman built a deprivation chamber in the basement of an old house we rented. We would smoke pot and then float in the darkness. Herman was keeping a journal of the thoughts that came to him in the chamber. In the garage he would hang balls on different lengths of string and would kick and hit them in a pseudo-karate workout. One evening over white wine, Trish told Herman and I about her experiences in Southern Illinois. I always listened to her very intently. I cherished every word that came from her mouth. Her words could paint a picture in my mind that no one else could. She was studying lesbian pornography. She was planning on majoring in it. I lost her somewhere on the hill between the pizza place and the Chinese restaurant. I guess she wandered for days before she found her way home. She was living with a sociology professor who was getting a divorce. They ate vegetables together and practiced white magic. After a year, the professor left Trish for some whore in Cincinnati. Trish moved in with David the Bell Weather and they had three kids together.

human suffering 25.17

We were looking back at January, trying hard to remember the way things were. We were watching the angels and the demons sway back and forth to the music. Trish was looking for a play on words, something she could tell the gardener. She always upsets my calculations. She questions the sincerity of my heart, asking me if I truly love her. I tell her that I love her more than I ever thought I could love someone. We deal entirely with disintegration, severing the nerve ends, opening up the capillaries, necrophilia, and fetishism.  Inside your pocket you carry a perfect picture. You never let it see the light of day. You stood upon the stoop and gave a speech about the death instincts of man, about this hallucination we all share concerning our desire for self-destruction. You are breaking ground for the new anarchy. We live with dead suns inside of us. I took you to the doctor and he fixed you up. Dr. Loophole threw a flaming comet across the horizon. He is standing on the threshold of a new era. He devours while he is devoured himself and there is more rain, more relics, and more progress. He has staged some amusing riots and has pulled off some interesting séances, but he is still a fraud and a thief. He is building an ark in his backyard in anticipation of the coming apocalypse. He acts upon his beliefs regardless of the consequences. I see the end approaching, but it is not an ending it is a new beginning. He who has a mind to decipher the clues of the riddle will know that the number is 39. We are hungry for the marvelous. We are patriots of the east side. The world outside of these streets only exists as an idea. We would walk to the graveyard to arrange the tombstones, putting the unordered lives into a final order. The old man was a preacher. He was the closest thing I ever came to god. When he looked at me I could see he had a confidence in me that I didn’t deserve. When I stood upon the altar, the world disappeared and time stood still. I was born on the east side streets and lived on the east side streets. My home was the dirty part of town. We awoke everyday to the stink of slaughtered hogs. My father loaded meat into trucks all day. We would wander the streets all day and I have wandered the world all my life. I am the happiest when I am moving down the highway in an automobile. The hum of the tires on the pavement is a sweet sound to my ears. I couldn’t get out of Waterloo fast enough, pulling up nine cities as the miles went past. Sailing up the river and going mad. The atrocities pile up to heaven. The evidence keeps growing and more and more people begin to understand. Once there was nothing and now there is everything. You pull your heroes out of your pocket and set them on the sidewalk, Napoleon, Marx, and Capone. You share them with the ignoble bastards. You share the glory and the hurtful truths. When it got dark, they led us to paths untold. They showed us the magic gate to the magical theater. We didn’t notice that the streets were ugly and dirty. There were the bars and fast women. No one would throw dirt in their eyes on a Sunday morning when god was a storybook character. The older boys would gather in their clubhouse and drink beer until the sun would go down. We played basketball at the schoolyard and football and wiffle ball in Pop Bottle Pete’s backyard. I remember experiencing victory and defeat. We occupied ourselves as best we could, not know where it was we were going. I remember the red glow of the furnace and the men with shovels who fed the fires that devoured the wooden coffins. No one asked any questions back then. We all pretended as if we understood. But there was confusion on our faces. It was a confusion you couldn’t buy at the Franklin Store. We would buy baseball cards and not really know why. We sold our souls to Rocky and Bullwinkle. We worshiped underdog. We watched Dirty Harry kill all the bad guys and still the streets weren’t safe. We still had bad guys who jump out of their cars and bust us in our noses. We walked into the furnace like devils and hell did not spit us out. We stood in front of Bonnie’s house and puked out our guts in front of her mother. I remember Bonnie’s mother calling me a monster as I beat the asshole into submission. The world is filled with assholes. We can never get rid of them.

human sufferig 25.16

Trish is juggling her abstract ideas. She is ignorant of the individual. She is measuring the patterns in the crop circles. Trish is a great fish out of water. She flops from side to side creating her reality. I cut her open and remove her air sack. Now she just floats down to the bottom. She is an animal trying to remember human speech. She has grown legs and crawls up out of the water. She has found that it is not always necessary to forgive others although she has forgiven me every time. My love for her was a bullet that went astray. It had something to do with her compassion for all the living creatures. She saw beauty in all of the evil. The evil is defined by our life as a machine. We crush the bones of the weak underneath us. We want only that which is impossible. We are timeless and eternal. Trish could not reconcile herself with the world so she turned the world upside down. She created a fiction to help pass the time away. This story she created helped to adjust the world to her. Now the world did not consider her peculiarities as strange and dangerous. Now the world took her in as one of its own. She was the lost child who was found. She was the little lamb that was brought back to the fold. Trish is a piece of art like any other art. Her underlying theme is salvation. The symbols by which she relates herself to the world are exhausted. She detaches the horse from the frame and it hides itself high up in the chandelier. We tried to coax it down, but it was too afraid. This is far more real than reality. The motorized sex borrowed from Darwin. He set up his camera and took precise measurements. We named the horse war and folded it up and put it away for death. Trish dug the trenches around the building and turned on the hose to fill them with water. I see the emergence of this great new empire of darkness.

Friday, July 13, 2012

human suffering 25.15

Trish could shrink herself into the size of a dot as she chewed on the silence. She could never lose her witchiness, a cheerful surge to her utterances. Trish did a lot of cocksucking for the noble cause as she caught the bird in her chest.  She was living a famine in the midst of plenty. She is fighting for her right to a piece of bread, starving for all of her traditions. Now she has become sympathetic and charitable even, wanting to heal those who have been marked for death. We destroy our power to love. Her famine goes to the roots. I take my shovel and dig deep into her ground. I look around for the source of her disease. We expect nothing from god. Trish lays down her life. She runs with the herd and dies with the herd. It is all really natural. She has become the animal that is in us all. She convinces others to rally behind a cause, a belief, an idea. She lives in the swarm of her fine principles. It is her principles that put the taste of death in her mouth. She kills them off one by one. The dead are helpless against her. She satisfies her need to kill. She is becoming more civilized. As the civilization in her grows, she becomes more efficient at the kill. Trish retrieves the primitive, anarchic instincts which have been sacrificed for the illusion of this world. She is throwing sticks of dynamite at the crowd. With each explosion, the crowd gets bigger. She is not going to trade her life for the anonymity of purpose. She will not fail in living her own life. Her fight is for life and to have it more abundantly. She wields her sword as she strikes down her enemy. The struggle must be taken to the streets. The struggle must take place every day. The struggle must take place inside of you and outside of you. The struggle starts with you. I am looking for something that no savior or prophet can give me. I need no leader and I need no god. I am sufficient in and of myself. I am larger than my physical body. I am stronger than my mind. I can work miracles. I have enough faith in myself to make myself heard. My words are loaded with dynamite. My words destroy the walls of illusion. My words destroy the lies of this world. I reach up inside of my enemies and pull out their intestines. I have laid myself out wide open. I have learned all the strategies of the world, how the deals are made in the back alleys. I bide my time looking for the right opening and then I let them have it with all of my might. I am against your revolution because what we need is evolution. Humanity needs to evolve into a higher order being. With a revolution, we only replace one group of oppressors with another. What we need to do is evolve to where you don’t find the need to oppress those who are weaker than ourselves. This is a turning point. Mark this day in your calendar, you will forever from this point forward be changed. The old you have died and a new you have been born. I have elbowed my way in here and there where ever necessary. I am not asking for justice because I know that justice does not exist. There is no way to balance the books of life. Good things happen to bad people and bad things happen to good people.