satan · the essay

Well this aught to be fun - fucking Beelzebub, how many wet dreams have you fucked up? Believe not that I write of your evil with disrespect or regard for its capacity to wreak havoc - rather like those lords and ladies dooming our world in service of filth lucre, I choose to peer into the abyss with laughter as my only backup - that and a little liquid courage (no irony there). “Hallelujah” now plays moments after my laughter metaphor and I persist with a mouth full of medicinal plant matter - what could go wrong? Bruce Lee says to fight effectively you must become one with your enemy; how am I doing, or more importantly, what exactly is there to fight? Is it for me: whiskey/beer, herbs leavened with lime? That would seem to be a pretty picayune enemy, a little like taking candy from a baby .  . when what I ache for is justice against wrong, or a little clarity with which to vanquish bullshit - are they equivalent struggles? Believe it or not - Bob Dylan is now singing “Knocking on Heaven’s Door”; am I once again, “a dollar short, hour late and going in the wrong direction”? Or are timing and luck just like any other human constructs - g_d, love, death - anything which when unexplainable by language, tradition or agreement is ascribed your valance of “evil”? Being thoroughly afflicted by Bob Dylan’s “Disease of Conceit,” I want to convince myself that this written artifice upon which I glue my tenuous hold on meaning, filtered or not through media distortion is a little like expecting you the reader to recognize the arcane description of “9x9” - a meaning for good signal strength from the arcane CB Radios. What is a more reasonable expectation would be that you the great deceiver is working his, or her magic through my once pristine now mangled awareness sullied by age, substance and defeat such that those from which I seek understanding simply scratch their heads muttering imprecations like “jesus christ, holy shit” or the ever useful “what the fuck is he talking about?”

Can this chaos for which Bob Dylan professes no fear, or possibly points right at, be scarier than fuck, rendering us warriors against disorder and danger outflanked and mission compromised? Does our fear of evil cede the field of engagement to you satan, where when what as crusaders we really desire is to be that good “American Marine - the most dangerous human agent ever conceived against the power of evil” instinctively running toward danger rather than away from it? - that is a question . . . yeah, sign up to fight for “your country” .  . so you can go to college . . . and it only gets deeper. How did eating “Mr. Goodbar”s with pop ever become the rape of Africa and child labor abuse?” More importantly, exactly who fucked with something so good as chocolate, and where are you just now? we gonna have a talk; .  . don’t be afraid - I only want to understand. If you reader find between those lines a menacing tone - what about this, “Mr. Executive, you have something I want, leave it on the table and go in peace . . “, too demanding . ? . Is there any way to confront evil and retain kindness? Is evil only that part of us which is frustrated in our desire to have our way. Me, I like chocolate - lots of chocolate, and some corporate person has fucked with my happiness creating tension where there had been joy; is that evil? What about you who look to fb, diaspora or any virtual community for some connection, distraction or reinforcement of belief which oh so thoughtful social engineers struggle to provide herein the church of social networking, only to find this conjured controversy - for g_d’s sake a screed about satan - things demonic, am I evil? We’ve pretty well established that fact .  . .

So why resort to such lengths to deny what is so obvious to all - this evil so clear to each of my ex-wives? Is a semi-comic journey on my oh-so-slow-train-of-thought just another inroad by you - satan - the all powerful demon-of-doom into civilization’s well-armored walls of goodness which I have voluntarily absented myself from by having so thoroughly participated in : where shall I begin? non-compliance, non-affiliation, non-denomination, non-compos-mentis .  . . there really is no end - save “the” end. One of my favorite movies as a young mind was “Damn Yankees,” (yeah, no irony there); but get this you monstrous justification for all that is fucked on our planet - he Dr Faustus caught the ball .  . and there is fuck-all you can do about that; it will be the same for every hit you make into the human outfield. Just because our species wants what is beyond its grasp and is willing to bargain for it, does not constitute the “darkness” Buddha averred or justify the excrement your corporate team fields instead of skill. Just so we’re clear about the concept, you or any one of your pissant minions of wrong shit cannot buy the human soul. The human team is sanctified; “we” invented Baseball, you only perverted it with your venal seduction and illusion of commerce where fun can be the only conceivable outcome. The game damn sure isn’t to become young or old, good looking or not as . . . after 61 + years, I got no clue, save for these sad little paragraphs between emptiness and more emptiness. . . the only joy I have is knowing your 3rd base coach got no clue, and I’m on my way home. Despair not prince of darkness; try this on for size - what if just as Professor Einstein posited “we cannot fix problems with the same thinking with which we created them” and for all my posing and railing against your apparent perfidy this essay only serves to draw in high relief fears that are entirely my own, irrespective of your ambitions - ambitions which may simply be beyond my limited understanding? . . . and I like every other spiritual energy on our planet employ any argument accessible to seal my eyes from what I cannot see? Oh you are so evil, mah bruddah .  .  . 

Was it your hand - Diablo - which prodded me to commence this essay for understanding evil one day prior to the auspicious 19th of January? Did your fallen-angel powers foretell my weakness and picture my too-soon-committed punch into air; is it not self-inflicted exhaustion from substance but a metaphysical demonstration of your enormous will which poured evil down my gullet? I can smell my own fear keystroke by keystroke . . is it like Peggy Lee’s “Is that All There Is?” and my puny existence is too eager for that grunt communicating your falling scythe and my loss of awareness? Is that all you got? I’m running on fumes, and still ready to mix it up literally - or like the scene in Star Wars where Luke loses his hand, this scab on my twice frozen fuck-you-finger will soon become the beginning of my Borg assimilation. Ese, I gotta tell ya’ - you be fucking weak, wait .  . . not weak; try this - fragile. I’m getting a sense in this substance fog, that shitty affront you affect for effect is just that - a front. Is it possible that you found at some point in your quest for existential power when you could not achieve love, you sought attention? I ask this because often when I find myself trying to understand what seems to be an evil - there is nothing but echo. Problems have dimension, they can be gauged, marveled at, even sold for profit; whereas evil, shrinks from the light as though it lacks mass - like the whereabouts of all the corporate hater’s booty. No one knows where it sits - a lot like that power you claim to possess over my fate. I gotta tell you friend, I’m not getting it, and I’ve been sort of high now for, what 2, no 3 hours.

I’ll give you my dissipated youth, but between you and me Bub - you were messing with a kid. That my friend is chicken-weak ass-shit - like digitally branding pre-schoolers, sad. Now I’m closer to your river Styx in age, close enough to smell the fear on your breath when you declare me - servant. Anyone who has connived to undermine the sovereignty of another as you foreswear is your prerogative must by that same higher light know how much understanding that involves. Understand this, I die each night of my life only to wake with you once again as my brother, my sister - my soul, my love; we be one and as much as you thwart, you can only expect to be thwarted; correct me if I’m wrong, for I know I do correct you at every opportunity. Between us as friends, I heed not the ruling class economy and change the only exchanges over which I have any control - my self. Don’t panic friend, I can’t live without your weakness, that is my evil, not yours. G_d knows how hard it is for you to find anywhere lower than you have gotten thus far; you damn sure don’t need my heretical notion of your effete degeneration holding you up, when clearly there are so many ways to be more abased - you and I friend are in a “target rich environment” of vileness into which that same good soldier rushed. I promise, as much as my word can be trusted, to distance my self from you where my admitted weaknesses allow so that you may fully further sink into that ether of emptiness of which you seem so full .  . 

jts 16/1/2016

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