Sunday, September 21, 2014

And this is what causes us to Imagine Lycantrophy

Jesse S. Mitchell

previous post,

And there is comes, booming over the tops of the hills, thunder.  Thunder and heat and dry crackle of light.  The swooping in dimness and shade.  Abrasion sky all contusion blue and pink, concussion rattling.  Tear my head out of dream, desire for more dream, desire for more desire for more dream.
Put my eyes toward the window and wait.  Anything could happen, sudden deluge, sharp penerating rain, hail, or all bluster and wind and nought anything else.  
There is nothing alien to me, nothing unexpected.  Rest my head on my hands, my hands at the ends of my arms, arms bend and elbows sitting rough on the window sill.  I hold my entire mind in my open palms, every thought I could think or have thought is resting there, I can feel it in my fingers.  A kind of surge, like lightning, running from the icy tips of me all through my veins to every spot in my body.  The power.
But it is so anxious, such an anxious feeling.  It is like I have exploded, sent every last part of myself flying, blasted all over the cosmos and now, I have to collect all the pieces back together.  But they fling further and further everyday and my arms get shorter and shorter, like some bizarre ironic Greek punishment.  Rolling rocks up the mountain sides, weaving shawls, sweeping back the ocean.   That is how thought feels, powerful but scattered, hard to reach, harder to control.
I am in the machine, the machine, I am in the machine, a part of it, moving, walking, talking.
It is grim feeling, the grim numb feeling of solid steel, little appendages stiff, openings frozen rusted shut.
It is the awful cold. The awful rain.  The awful wind.  The awful calm.
The black coffee depaysement of our righteous souls trapped within the robotic machinery that we can do nothing about, it is the angst, it is the bother, the annoyance, the deep deep itch at the backs of our minds.
The feeling that our lives are oh so meaningless, or that the best part of us is over and gone, the wave of frustration, the growing older all the time.  The feeling that we are merely accidently alive.  Random accidental death occurs around us every day, so can a person be inadvertently alive, simply missed, existing only by nature’s incompetence, we carry that anxiety around with us. When will the hammer fall, the blade cut, when will all our blood be finally spilt?  When will our Armageddon come? Because apocalypse  is always solitary, always personal, us against the evil world.
   It is the dark black clouds that color our skies.  It is the source of our dwindling sanity, our long steep descent into obligatory neurosis.  Wring our hands together and make a spark, start a fire, start a blaze, give up on the flame and shift though the ashes, cause a rattle in the lungs and a plume of acrid smolder cinder, this has become our lives.  Our eyesight. Our daydream.
We are a fingerprint smudge on the long pane of glass, the window we all see through, see through you, but wiped clean, visibility restored.  Prism light captured.  Philosophy.  Terrible mind wandering, wondering, speckles and spots, stars and atmospheres, here we are, streaks and stains galore.
But think…
Just think,
All those lustful insects that set in to devour us when our bodies are barely cold and dead are moved by nature no less than we are…
But no, they are the same.  The same as us, seeking to survive, to propagate, to divide, to be alive when being alive is a certain possibility.
But some would have us not animals, not beasts, not natural things at all but instead angels, seraphim, cherubim, diadem, some outpost of removed divinity and inexpicable justice.  A lost Roanoke colony hereafter on Earth of those higher realms.
Colonial wine is sour.
And colonial wool is rough.
And the days are long
And memories fade.
And most of our minds have had quite an enough of holding out, holding out and waiting, waiting for the rain.  Those toothless storms rattle their light-hook sabers and bastard noises of rumbling grumbling.  It grows and it grows and it grows. When does it end?  When does it pay off?  
Or so long and far away, that it might as well be never.  Suffice to say, we will all be dead before.
We have been having this war with ourselves for so long now, all these thousands of years, that a call for oblivion is simply a quest for mercy, and mercy is delight that the hungering for, nature will scarcely allow.  Not a thing that can go unpunished.
Waiting and knowing
Waiting to know
Knowing that we are waiting.
Or maybe I will make for myself an awful beast, a degenerate creature.  A man who feeds the lions the beating, blood-dripping hearts of saints, of innocents.  Some wild demon-worshipping sinner, some total monster. Yaa-whooo-ulu! Some giant gaunt and bony, terrible.  A Ymir, full of blood to flood the rivers below with carnage, trees and skin and bone of gooey cartilage things.  Or a Saturn, a Uranus, jealous devouring all it creates.
Something strange.  Something shocking.  Watch how it moves.  Observe it. Preserve it.
But I cannot stay the dying away.
Go back to the corpse.  Listen to whatever breath may still be in the lungs.  Wait.
This is war.  All out war.  
I cannot hold back a thing.  I have no powers here.  Only words.  Only words and the magical actions they describe.  I would do anything in this world.  I would do anything, anything I could…to stop the barrage, the leaking through, the ripping away from you and from me and from them, the ending of hours, the shortening of days, a wizard flick of wrist to undo the fading light, the slow soft careening of evaporating chance.  Life.  Oh, to be alive.  A kiss.  A feeling.  A second more.  Desirous.  Delirious.  Longing. Madness.  Insanity.  Aspiration, put your kiss upon my lips, a dream. Not a breath between us.  Not a length of shadow beneath our feet.  The sun directly above our heads.  Today.  But today is never enough.  Too much indifferent wind around us in our todays. But more, we need more.  Not a frozen moment trapped under hot glass, melting away.  Not a second that never ends but the promise of endless moments tripping one after the next, not enough room to jam them in. We need too many todays to live them all.  We need all the time in the world.  More years than we have cells or carbon or half-lifes for…  Not a berth of  unpleasant space surrounding.  Tomorrow.  Give me infinite tomorrows.  Give us faith in the possibilities of infinite possibilities.
But this is war.  All out war.  Every second losing.  A losing war against the disappearing away.  Lust.  Dust.  Fading.  Failing.  Flailing.  Going away.  A passing car.  Memory like light bending, fleeting, dissipating.
But go back to the corpse and listen, watch for any movement.
But surrender is surrender and surrender is ending and ending is final, finality is surrendering, sundering, cutting, severing, the gross and great stoppage of blood, the loss of surging, the freezing, the motionless petrifaction.  Putridifcation.   The uglification of everything beautiful.  The blockage.  The barrier.  The clot in the veins.  The finality.
The end of waiting.  The absence of the need of knowing.
Better to war on.
Better to war on.
The awful calm.
Rub my hands together.  Devise away conflicts.  Put thoughts in the heads of imaginary characters, put terrific walls in front of them, strengthen their muscles, shorten their stride, force them over their obstacles.  Jump.
I find wisdom hidden within their apprehensions.  I find strengths hidden within their despairs.  What part of me sings when I put melodies in their minds, songs on their lips?
Maybe I will make them all superhuman.  Not bound at all to any natural laws of existence.  Maybe I will make them all gods, as I am a god to them.  Maybe I will make them live forever.  Never dying.  Immortal.  What lies hidden in that kind of suffering, in that kind of existing.
But I cannot stay the dying away.  For they all owe to me, their continuation…and I cannot guarantee my own.
My own.
My own.

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