Free Thought: It Burns
In the manner of tradition, we must begin as we began all those years ago, in the back row of a room full of men and women and people not yet begun to be who they must become. To wit: adolescents, frustrated inflated devalued unloved angry and too smart in a room, a little room in a hotel where death first hit the wall
SPLAT
and then we were off, too much caffeine, and it begins (but it didn't begin then, it began sooner; is this to be my history then, the history of nonsense and violence and anger and confusion, of lounge room lizards and molestable stage boys, of Shao Kai and Jensy and Makella and me, little me, caught up in the lives of people too much in the sun and too much more than I could ever hope to be it was then, New York, 2000, in the March, the gloomy March, time marching on in the United Nations representative from Mexico's office, the man who said the US was missing the forest for the goddamn trees, who said it wasn't torture, because who sponsors torture? No one, that's who, it just happens, happenstance unlucky chance, those poor, poor people, what a shame, but we can't do a damn thing about it, not here, not now)
Now there's the history: Free Thought, thar she blows, burning burning, burning down, burning it all down to the ground- we were meatballs and meatheads nothing but brainmeats in the brainpan- looks like stirfry tonight.
So:
Traditionally, it begins thus, and so:
All work and no play makes V a dull girl all work and no play and no one to stay makes V a dull girl makes me a dull girl makes me something tarnished and un-shiny not good double plus perhaps, extra large extra fast extraordinary but so much less than ordinary is this what we are? Is this what we will be when tenses break down and time dissolves, when the end of the world is nigh and we're all left behind to our own little worlds, our little miserable planetary alignment: chaotic, neutral, good/bad yes/no, maybe? I'll take The Remedy for three hundred Alex, and make it snappy, cappy- pulling a cuppy and why does it all just go back to highschool in the end? Were these really the best days of our lives, carefree and footloose foot lost, lost my feet and heaven won't help won't help anyone because heaven helps those that help themselves.
Thus. And so:
Who will you be? Who will you be when the wind blows down, blowing down low on the door to your heart, knocking it down? Who will stand at the doorway when there's nothing left- will you be who you want to be at that time, reduced to nothing in a melting pot of thought and experience, delirious with possibility? Will we be left out in the cold while the wind warms itself on the fires of our souls? 'Tis human nature to seek out warmth, but what is human?
We are nothing more than our love for ourselves; beyond that, what else is there? We could be dreams we could be beans a new source of fiber for the universal intestinal tract, just passing through, pay us no mind. We could be nothing more than the prelude to a sneeze, something squeezing past the lungs of some great wheezing beast, the world creature capturing us all in its ineffable airways.
I would rather be a sneeze (not a pair of claws, ragged or otherwise) than a person if that's to be my end. I'll be the wind itself, you'll never catch me in your cathartic crescendo. (SLAM BANG CHORD- look it up, it's there; I once thought the universe was a symphony orchestra, building to that ultimate climax: six octaves of C Major, enough to resonate even the biggest Megauniversity on the coast.)
The worlds follow and I am left behind- is this misery even my own? What right have I to say that things must be thus, and so, and so, and thus and however I may choose? What right have you, my dear, oh, my dear do you not understand how you have left me here? Left me with the rage and the hate and the overused song lyrics that say so little with so many words. We're not worth this much; this isn't nonsense, this is wretchedness, a break in tradition.
It was the caffeine, the second time, and a desperate need for love to spring out of the hatred that consumed every part of me that was not lost and alone. The first time it was weariness, and a notepad and love- ever since then, I've lost track, lost track of who I am and where I'm going left with nothing-
But this overwhelming sentiment. Excuse me, my melodrama needs purging, please don't mind me, do you see? Don't mind me, this is the clara paciscor, the last chance for a ticket out of here.
Don't mind me, I've always been a little crazy- and if I were her, I'd say that like it really was a bad thing, because it is. It is when you let it devour you, like so many have.
We are nothing. Poets and prosists have come up with a better end to that line, but I am neither, I am not even a thinker; call this thought? No, not thought, merely words, which are nothing more than mispelled worlds, spinning in infinity (hey, halleluia) because in the beginning, was there not nothing more?
We are the Word, then, and the Word was God and Thought and all else that Groks and can hold love in itself, hold it like something fragile and precious. It isn't- not love, it's hardy stuff- but even the toughest among us can appreciate a little tenderness.
Who will you be when the wind blows down your door? I thought it was the music once, the transcendental chord from which all other sounds began- but after all other sounds have sounded, what will there be left to hear? Will we hear the heartbeat of the universe, echoing through worlds, worlds? Or will the silence wrap us in featherdown and broken glass, so gently, gently?
Soft, soft, what sounds from yonder keyboard break? 'Tis the sound of a mind left in stasis, in anger and rage. Where's the productivity in this, you ask? Where is the freedom? Traditionally, that's what it was- a freedom from thought, a freedom from that little room of highschool students arguing the democratic process to death.
The South Shall Rise Again, thank y'all kindly. A crime is a crime is a crime is a crime, said my good friend, Gertrude Stein! But she knows that I go to the ol' duex magot to drink pernot through the night. In the end we can be song lyrics, snatches of phrases, but you might never get it at this rate; typing a mile a minute three billion kilometers a second, give or take an order of magnitude order of the rose, the rose, oh jezebel from Israel, does it always go back to you? Aeria Gloris, gaudete, gaudete- there's your Latin moment for the day, lost in the unrush of the house of tom bombadil (and you'd never guess winamp was responsible- at the beginning of everything, what are we but music?) old tom bombadilo! there's your sam for you, always the coolest person in the group, even when he's just half an assassin and nothing more than an ass-
least we're not making mountains out of molehills, ladder legs, adder legs- but adders don't got no legs, asmodeus, my dear (still don't get it? you're not trying hard enough!) Where will you be when the black wind howls down your door, down the floor on the floor heads down thumbs up it's not seven up it's mountain dew! I attack the darkness- I dreamt I was a moron, you see, but you may never get it (I am not a pickel this time, nor a walrus, though I might be a meatball- maybe a lion, too) we might be the Knights of the Round Table but it's a square wave all around and I won't integrate it for you- round to round but square to triangle and back again it's all circles in the end
Good shapes, circles- some of my best friends are circles, even if a few of them are angry- this calls for Violence Type B: hitting things with other things.
BAM BAM BAM
Sorry, coudn't hear you over the beating of my heart (be still, be still!) ring around the rosy, the posy ain't the plague, no not this time (never gonna get it) there is no spoon here, not what you're looking for- it won't do you any good for cutting out hearts nor eyes nor claws- and what was that? Nothing here but us KhiKKens, waiting for Kompression into something smaller and colder than what we are; this sucession of witches will end some day (break the chain) (of queens, you bloody faggot)
And then the song changes, spinning, spinning- sound like angels, drawn out into threads, into thread, chewing through all that is organic and changing and alive- dynamic entry! The internet is for porn,after all (and you still. don't. get it.)
But that's okay. I don't expect you to ( I might expect it from the other guy, but never you, never you, it's blue dabadee and never mind you that I thought Cher was a man, there's life after everything) Right normal people? ...nevermind (me), we don't much care about that. This is the afterlife, tangerine shag carpeting and everything. What more do we need? Not six years too late, nor too early, neither- right on time. No past, no present (right here, right here, not a gift but something better), just the future, for ever and ever and ever Amen.
The day is ended. Go in peace.
Turn off the lights and turn off the radio- you'll make it home in the end.
(We are all just dreamers on a sea of infinite possibility, finding our way home.)
We could just waste our lives living a cliche, and there's no shame in it, no blame in it- we can only do what we were meant to do (with a rock to wind a string around, whistling in the dark for nothing more an nothing less than minimum wage: Anzani!) and obey those happy cliches on t-shirts:
Be as you are. (For ever and ever, amen.)
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