110623 the Macabre New Year - 6 months L8r · an essay
This, my last essay, ‘the Macabre New Year’ was written at the beginning of the year in another country, different narrative; never published - too macabre. Suffice it to say, after a Traumatic Brain Injury (TBI) and a broken wrist from getting knocked off my bicycle at Thanksgiving; my whining about getting Covid after Christmas was pretty predictable · the vestiges of that confluence of inequity are locked in the PDF file that refused my tortured efforts this morning to open and complete my mission. But rather than beat a ‘dead horse’, let’s see if it is not possible to invent a train of thought inaccessible to the fake-as-fuck jargon the ruling class is passing off as entertaining prose, because why not? I can say this because i’m likely much closer to death at my age than your ‘presumed’ younger demographic. And unless you’re a bored, aged operative tasked with supervising the slightly nefarious rantings of any miscreant jeopardizing public harmony with disaffected, however diffident, evocations for generalized mayhem, the possibility of your casting off the yoke of your carefully fitted mental manacle are next to nothing.
But then again who’d have thought anyone surviving an automobile collision from a blue-tooth distracted officer of the Kern County judicial establishment, could muster the gumption to swim upstream south to the land of Emilio Zapata and the much younger Mexican Revolution? And to what end; it’s not like the boink on my head knocked anything out of place or even jarred loose cogent meaningful narrative capable of derailing the ai choo choo and its mission of world domination by using carefully crafted, however verbose snippets of rhetoric seasoned with emotional denial and the sour grapes of a life wheezing into its end days without an African Queen fitted for any kind of ‘Hail Mary’ gesture to bracket its quest for meaning.
I forgot how much fun it was to just write minus the ego orientation of accomplishment and need to present for recognition proof of how much one knows by what one writes, rather than how much one feels by sharing what one has discovered. For example, in this perfect cocoon of creativity that i have been searching for since i left my last studio, i have enjoyed the most blissful hours of focused work that i can remember for a long time; and yet that thorn - the pebble in the shoe Muhammad Ali referred to in his aphorism about ‘it’s not the mountains ahead you have to climb that wears you out, but the pebble in your shoe’, almost like the universe has to add emfasis to the sylahble by infecting the metal door on my patio with a mechanical chirp so i won’t get too comfortable and get all blissful with the creative - but that’s just a mean way to see the world, almost like some pathology of my own can’t stand the thought of my having fun and wants to drag me back to the world of . .. help me, what’s the word i’m looking for?
Same for the lover i was about to take until she fit the mold of previous ‘harridans’, i’ve known and left me hanging without a nod, or was it that i was just too dam close to that happy threesome, but too dam fundamental in my thinking? I really don’t know. I know there is no perfect relationship and that my siblings are not superior to me for having carried their harnesses in the conventional way for so much longer than our poor tormented and not so tormented parents had been able. I have also burnt the fingers of my soul trying to fly too close to the sun and would rather fight for a lifestyle that permits me to explore my world and its language of ideas as best i can without censure or fear in the hopes that simple gravity of ‘too much to ignore’ may one day escape the confines of the facile conceptions where social engineers render curiosity and imagination to such narrow confines as to be easily defined by 'affectless' algorithms.
In engineering the ‘go to’ whimper for losing scads of work to an ill-placed keystroke was, it’s always easier to rebuild 'it' - no matter what ‘it’ was. In this instance, the simple pleasure of writing without an ax to grind, has been more fun than i’m inclined to waste time explaining, but if as was posited by the erudite photographer of the Hollywood YMCA, who later looked the other way when i tried to associate in Aix, “Lord willing and the creek don’t rise,” i will come visiting again and more often. I like the act of sharing and while i make no claim that what you read or learn herein is of any use to anyone but myself, i can say what you've read is as open and honest as i can make it without charging you a whit for its reading; Good luck to us all, and to all a good night.
+-+-+-
the Macabre New Year - 6 months L8r · and sonnet
X / X / X / X / X /
Habits are great if they don’t make you sick
“what doesn’t kill you, will make you stronger.”
Not my words, but they are still pretty slick,
though they’ll do fuck all to keep you younger.
“Fountain of youth” another fuckin’ myth,
designed by greed to keep you in great need.
for if you could just find out who to tithe,
the hunger you work for wouldn’t need feed.
Then again without form, Kaos might reign;
Maxwell Smart made it clear how that worked out.
The truth people feared might happen, became -
The good guys lost, and evil reigned throughout.
a sad parable, if you can listen,
might present itself past a distant din.
jts 110623 the Macabre New Year - 6 months L8r · a sonnet
http://stoanartst.blogspot.com
all rights reserved
∞
