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The Sunday Tunnel: Covered and ill

[Continued from here.]

Dysfunctional, disaster, disabled, dyslexic, whether in its Greek or more modern version the sound ‘dis’ is a disturbing omen of what we don’t want. Except in one case: the case of being discovered. Some of us want that despite it being an omen all the same.

“Governali spent the fifties as a part of the chorus, but when that silly book of his – Character Crucified on the Cross of the Historical Chronicle – came out, and received raves from the reactionaries who wanted history turned back into biography, and biography backed into moralized little Aesopian fables of fate, fortune, and foolishness, edifying all git out, uplifting as a bra, rosy as the nipples in it, when the Times interviewed him, and public radio did a report; when his promotion came through without a hitch (we didn’t dare vote against it, revealing the envy we felt, the disappointment with our own vacant and weedy lot); and when he got a goddamn Guggenheim to boot, and was elected to the Faculty Senate; then our small Italian friend grew a large voice, took hold of our sleeves without our leave, circled us as if we were his prey, and lectured us concerning our coldness, our indifference, our pseudoscientific pretensions, my fascism, Herschel’s humility, Culp’s crassness, and particularly on the Manatee’s pooh-poohing proclivities – in any pronouncement, Tomasso said, Planmantee’s purpose was to put plenty of p’s and b’s in it in order to make it seem blown out of his mouth like a bubble of spit – then we were ready to feel the same Schadenfreude  at his downfall as an aristocrat might at the bankruptcy of a nouveau riche; we even loved it a little when he went to extremes, hoping the tide of his success would turn to toss him back on the beach, or that his bragadaccio would receive Mussolini’s fate, and the little worm would become a little worm again, upon whose boneless back we would return those boots we felt we had received from him.” (ibid. p. 405-406)

That was one sentence. And what a sentence it is! It makes me acutely aware of how uninspired I am. I can taste the envy as you can taste milk that has gone off. That’s what’s wrong with achievement, with difference in principle, for all things it contributes it simultaneously highlights what we did not contribute because we were not discovered. Fifteen hits I have received, each a potential breakthrough; each a definite letdown because Jesus does not multiply ours as he multiplies it for others.

“Yet when I talk to him sometimes, I hear my voice returning to me larger than it left; I find my thinking clarified, my mistakes disclosed, just by being spoken into him, because he naturally knows how to echo: first from this surface of consideration, then from that; each time differently, directing, bending, shaping the conception, allowing all its holes to fill with further holes until it comes back to you hollow as a shell, and you are left with only your memory of how it once reverberated, how before, when it departed your sunny solicitous shore, your thought was vital, energetic, sea deep, insistent as surf, and how now it is tiny, tinny, thin, an alien husk, a brittle bit of calcified skin some worm’s worn.” (ibid. p. 415)

Ah, Herschel Honey, the inclination point, disappointment’s date with reality. A prostate blocking nature’s grand flow. A man’s man curse.

“Without a faith in facts – yes, I guess that’s what it is, Herschel confesses when confronted by my jubilant frown – there is nothing to hold the historian down, he will fill with his own conceit and float off over every – well? what? – maybe treetop; for to permit the world to go soft, as some would like, is to make the truth totally an instrument of power, and a tool of business, church, state, and special interest, of every imaginable ideology and benighted cause.” (ibid. p. 417)

As much as we try to boil it down such that only the shell remains, as much they fill it with new foam again and they cry: “Magnificent!” and lure the many with the grand to stuff them in their fudgy sticky foam and then it takes a hundred, more than one for sure, Herschel’s to quietly boil it down again. Undiscovered Herschel’s that neither belong with the few nor with the many and are hated by both but particularly by the many who love their foam, who would race their favorites until the foam covers their chests. Yuk!

Herschel Honey, still:

“Being reasonable is simply being reasonable; and I never found much that was very reasonable about being sure; being sure suggests you’re nervous; what kind of a guarantee does a person need that it won’t rain before planning on a picnic? On the other hand, not being sure doesn’t mean you’re unsure, either. I sum up: you can hem, then, without having to haw. And haw without having already hemmed, Herschel says, whether adding or subtracting from me, I’m not sure.” (ibid. p. 420)

Nothing is true but some things are false. And that sentence, not being a thing, may be true but it is unexciting. We chase truth and certainty as if were junkies in a prison, knowing we will take prisoners every which way we need to get our stuff. And the basic thing is that it is not either/or, neither is it thesis, its anti and consequent sin, nor is anything merely true or false; the visualization is wrong, philosophy stuck in tit for that where biology could only move by moving beyond tat; the needle goes in to come out, to go in again and to come out only to go in again. Everything comes in fours with the first not being the fourth – that does Nietzsche in: patterns, yes, cycles, no.

“(..) slowly slime is covering the earth, more of it made every day – more whiny people, more filthy thoughts, crummy plans, cruddy things, contemptible actions – multiplying like evil spores (we were told to be fruitful, not to trash the place) (..)” (ibid. p. 435)

Foam I said. Slime I meant.

The few create the slime, the many get stuck in it and the others boil it down – each layer of slime calcifying into another geological layer of past woes, layer upon layer – if inspected truthfully – on a downward trend of bile; far from linear, let alone decreasing as exponentially as economic activity increases; a downward trend then that doesn’t provide clarity nor provides certainty but rather, for the few, creates the image of infectious regions of absolute growth in bile, growing with the absolute numbers of people that can be disabled by disappointment; such that the few can cough up more slime, ever more slime which they can point to as a fact – their soft fact – fueling their car of pessimism such that it can take in all of the increasing number of the many passengers.

Progress is self-defeating, at least perception-wise.

“Nature kills off tons of its living citizens hourly so others may arrive. What number for this thought? Those who oppose birth control should suicide at sixty. Got to make room at one end or the other.” (ibid. p. 444)

Only that those who oppose suicide at sixty (oppose the right to die) should promote killing our children. And they do. If you’re full of yourself, you are full of the conviction that wisdom comes with age, that there is no room for new innocence and clean slates because everything is written on you, by you, in you. Children are a nuisance, a noise; take up space, and breath the air you want to have the liberty to pollute; eat the cows that breath your oxygen.

If there is one thing we have done wrong against nature it is to disable it to kill off citizens, specifically the citizens who’re full of themselves because their parents still treated them as gifts of life. Find a kid-hating person who tolerates children insofar they have the ability to act as grown-ups and you find people who live too long. The only thing we can do is to go and commit suicide when we are older because that way the bastards will become outnumbered again and as obsolete as they always, naturally, were meant to be. Fuck their achievements. Fuck their meritocracy. Fuck their money with which they want to control what happens when they’re no longer there.

I have about 16 years to go.

“What does the surface of the sea say? It says there will always be waves, and the ocean will always be empty.” (ibid. p. 449)

It is empty of the see-er who says this because he doesn’t want to be a part of the waves. He wants to stand out because he has seen a few stand out and fails to see they are no longer there, except as part of the waves, together with the many and, even worse, even, together with the others.

[Continues here.]


March 10, 2013 - Posted by | Sunday Stories | , , , , ,


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