| Lately, it occurs to me... |
[Oct. 4th, 2007|02:54 am] |
Life is surprising, even when you've become accustomed to cycles as I have. Good, bad, both becoming the same, and meaning nothing at all. I am beyond nihilistic now, and refuse to believe or disbelieve a thing but find it for myself. When life is down in the gutter, something comes along to brighten it-- communication sometimes, and I must reach out to people who decide to initiate, for it is against my very soul to speak first, tho' I might wish it-- people I like, or think interesting, I do not speak with even if I think it a great idea. But some reach out, as has happened to me lately, for some unknown reason.
But perhaps I retarded the whole thing, as in answer I did write strongly. My mind is a strange and eccentric thing, that moves in mystic visions. I am of the middle ages, theologically, and am all together inclined to romances... perhaps my mind is as addled as a gentleman ... "In a place in La Mancha, whose name I do not care to recall..." for I use such references as these, and make myself ever the villain, protesting but a single good word-- I am resolved to play the villain, I should think to say, and after all are not the heroes of my favorite book of playful, pretentious, mocking reverence but Cain and Pilate?
I could try to change. I have-- after years of railing against the concept, and reinforcing myself that nothing changes. Could I become social, could I become more than the introvert, antisocial, sexually sick (my greatest terrible fantasies not yet revealed to man nor beast nor any other soul) pervert that I am? I don't think so, but there is a chance for some slight change, a new start of the old self, a re-imagining. It will no doubt end the same as always, the despair of creation beginning, creation ending. Are circles, cycles elegant? I would say not for the very reason that this is all I can conceive. I cannot see things as a line stretching into infinity. I see but a Mobius Strip, and infinity is that snake eating its own tail. My chance is this, and such I have been debating with myself whether or not to take: I have been accepted to U of O where once I planned to go to to the rival school. But that is dead, as the hope that bloomed that dream, as the other hopes that bloomed the dream again. "The best laid plans..." of course, go wrong, and so I am trying not to plan, but trust a feeling.
I do not like many of the people 'down there' (down there? La Bas! A testimony of the Black Mass... a read I recommend, by JK Huysmans.) for I think them all more pretentious than I-- and I so pretentious, and yet I will admit. The sin of theirs I hold against them all is they will not admit this fault, no! they will revel in it, and play out parts long dead, and well left buried. And it all comes down to my truest, deepest fear, the despair that is within me always, the terrible and irrevocable hopelessness of the thought that there is nothing new in Art. Jazz has become safe! Safe! A refuge for band geeks, a thing of importance, marginalized into our high schools and no longer the voice of sad souls staring out into the dark night longing for the je ne sais pas, the indescribable, -- weary tones or fast manic paces all one all the same. No, we are happy to go to recitals of Jazz. And Sun Ra forgotten, and the late Miles spurned, and oh we love Satch or Fats or Lady or Bird or Dizzy. But it's acceptable to everyone now! And I have tried, have looked for some new form, some little expression that truly does go against the grains, the truth is that it is gone-- noise is music now, it has been long ago since first Tzara pulled paper from a hat. If everything is art, there is nothing left-- and yet there must always be through all the catastrophe, something moving, some real living thing. Music has evolved, and the last new music I heard was call back to the past, and good as The Cat Empire is, or Marsalis, or some snoot rock group, I've heard it all before from Gene Autry to War.
It is late, and I am reflective. And yes, I am sad. But this is no sadness, depression. This is the real thing! The greatest of them all, the soul sadness of realizing Nothing! Is ! Ever! Done! Nothing can Ever! Be ! Done! (Yea, this is the threshold of revelation.)
I guess I should pull a Kesey. Look at it. Say "FUCK IT", and turn away.
Turn away from the tragedy, and accept it-- yes, the monks, the Palestinians, all these things, the causes-- turn away from them, fuck it, and look Further. Yes, keep going, tho' the land is most all discovered now. It is all discovered, I think, but is it know? Jack my hero Kerouac, less than my fag father friend and familiar Ginsberg (though no less sainted to my mind), set out to show and catalog the dying Nation-- and though we pretended to rise phoenix, we never did, and the truth about The Wasteland is not the problem is desire (Fuck you, Buddha, constipated enlightened) but the Fisher King mythos holds I think. We are infertile. We need sustenance from the Holy Grail, whatever that is to us-- and the cycle, the ring will start again.
I'm going to do it, I'm going to drive, like I proposed before. I'm going looking for the god damned country, the myth, the heroics, the land I believe in. I fear it is dead, along with heroes like John Wilkes Booth and Ike Eisenhower and Julius & Ethel R. The greater sin, I think, is refusing to admit that the whole thing is dead, or even to despair. There may be no hope left, but there may be something, that quality of sadness, that ennui, left in this land of ours, that you can keep moving across and rediscovering. Further & Further.
I think I'll take a short trip. A drove. But I don't know where I shall go, and I don't have a destination. Perhaps I will do this soon, perhaps after I understand whether the change of scenery to a place I disdain but still envy is right for myself. Or perhaps I will put this off until later, continuing schooling-- I do not know. After all, it's only "once in a while you get shown the light, in the strangest of places, if you look at it right...."
A fitting end, and perhaps a prophecy of which direction my choices lie. Some day soon, or some year, I shall go visiting. If you wish it, I crazed mystic masturbatory modern Nemo, might come to rest by your fires a while... because it's also what's Off the Road that counts. |
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