Dec 24, 2007

Form Letter for Tough Times Ahead (edited for drunk-type)

Eve handed Adam the apple and asphyxiated the conditional of human condition. There is no longer "if" or "how" there is a set of accepted ideals furthered by certain freedoms.

For example, if there is a mistake, it must be courtesan to its consequences. Mutually exclusive, you see. If I want to bandy my arms around someone and constrict them and own them, they must realize that the life they lose and friends they alienate are the fault of an apple and nothing more. I am not your fault, nor you I.

At times, I wish I had rubbed gravel against my feet when I was younger. For hours, I could toughen the most lively part of myself, blood trickling over spots of floor mats, wood slats, cement, steamed locker room floors. There is a energetic rambling in me when I consider the prospect of toughness of form. I won't lie to you. Help me, I can't.

Marvel, then at the mastery of a sculptor or a wordsmith. I'll show you a thousand words, and each with its picturesque views of cityscapes and ideal land structures and recycled meanings will never hold water like a single brush of my hand along the side of you or the sting of smoke bellowed from an old smoker's lungs. Three fingers knotting your spine could make all the difference.

Therein lies the problem. Drunks will tell you Shakespearian tales of loss, marquees will blithely ignore your wanting to be on them, but neither has the fortitude to inform you that you are not as important as an apple-- formerly swaying (unthinkingly weighing down a branch). Such is life, and the passage as such.

All to brief, albeit masochistic, are the times I consider love or affection as more than what they are-- spoilt fruit. If I pour out the wine, I will only stain the carpet. If I stay in bed forever, I will only grow hungry. If I walk, I will crack the bottoms of my feet (whether or not I am wearing boot-soles). If I gnaw at my skin, I will only relive my reformations; my growing scabs and skin until I am mended.

I cannot speak, I am silent. I cannot consider, I am mute. I cannot embolden, I am quiet. This is the day of rest, and I am running wildly and bandying about my arms with abandon, but I am not heard. This will go on forever-- you an I have nothing together or apart, even when even-keeled and emptying our pockets to remain in each other's company.

One must speak politely when speaking to himself in a bar-- lest other think you mad mad mad mad. When speaking to others, one must be harsh and demanding, naturally.

So, then, finality-- its dark, rancorous bottom where the philistines would deem us failures and the knowing and damned would cover us with moist blankets. Our ceremony, then, is complete and not to be relived or reviled-- just considered when necessary through mutuality irregardless of our guarding souls.

We already knew all this, and we already know. The apples whispered in our ear while we crushed them with our teeth.

No comments: