Dispatches from a Wide-Eyed Wayfarer.
January 1, 2014
The days, the years, the riverrushes of time behind us, where does it all go to rest? In the mudholes dug by the gravediggers, by the gravediggers with no faces, whistling nameless dirges, those gravediggers out of tune, out of breath?
My friends and my loves, scattered like birdshot and birdbones across this holy frozen globe, are you sleeping well? I hear your bodies tossing and turning, breathing deep and slow. I hear the rustle of sweat-sodden sheets. I hear your laughter in my dreams, your laughter receding with the sun, your gasping laughter drowned by the tides of wine and time and night. The night that takes you and takes me and takes these years and dashes us upon the cold hard concrete of cold hard time. You are hurt. We are all hurt. I feel your bruises. Thousands of miles away, I feel your bruises. Give me your bruises. Place it all on me. Your concussions and contusions and open wounds. I am your hurt. I am your laughter. Where does time go when it goes? The hurt and the laughter? Those days and years left behind, cursed and damned and left to wander forsaken, beyond redemption, beyond salvation? The three hundred and sixty five scars carved upon our palms? The frozen meadow beds of crows and Chronos and rose thorns?
We consume the night that consumes all time, the fluttering night that lunges upon us, the night that gnaws and devours and lumbers back to its unmarked grave. Consume and be consumed. Stand idle, hold your breath and hear the rivers rush towards the great black open nothing of oceanic night. This is the course of time. This is the due course.
Stand silent and gaze upon it all. Those years and those years, those hollowed, hallowed years, those faceless gravediggers, those unmarked graves, those rivers and their roars of self-annihilation, those pangs of laughter, those broken hands of time, and us, all of us, lovelorn and windtorn and brittleboned, crawling dawnward on cold, bloodied knees.
Indeed, this is where time goes when it comes time to go — staggering into the intoxicating ether of night, dissipating with the coal smog of a January morn.
September 24, 2013
I’ve written before that all of life is a quest back to Eden. That all of life a journey for a land of simple Summer eves simmering into eternity. I’ve written before that all of life is stumbling search to reclaim our childlike innocence.
Indeed I thought it was possible, indeed I thought I could dawdle moondrunk everlong, could climb my way back to Grace.
But that was before I’d eaten from free the Tree of Knowledge, before I’d taken that worm-riddled fruit into myself. That was before I’d happened upon the Truth. That was before I’d ventured into the Heart of Darkness and saw Man is made of, what Man is at his basest.
Wallow in the gallows mud long enough, dawdle amongst the dead — and this will happen.
Dig yourself a hole and sleep with the fleabag dogs — and this will happen.
Yet we give ourself these illusions, these false hopes. Because they are necessary. Because they give us hope, something for which to yearn. We promise ourselves blessings that we can never deliver, tithings we’ll never be able to afford. Again, we do this because we must.
And very well then. This is enough for those that skate upon the surface, for those that gaze and admire and carry-on, for those that journey with hands unsullied, faces never bloodied, hearts nary-wrenched. This is enough for those content to see the world through lens of the camera and a boozehazed glare. For those that take a gander and gallop giddily on.
But then there are those that must throw themselves into the muckpainted portrait, those that dig must dig deeper and deeper still. There are those that want Truth. And so they must shovel to core.
And when they can’t dig any further, when they can no longer see the sun nor bird-swarming sky, what have they found?
Truth? Or a self-shoveled Abyss?
Or shall we call them the same?
I’ve returned from the Land of Eagles, from the city of Fire and Worms. I’ve returned to the City Upon the Hill.
But the glitter is a shade dimmer, the sparkle only a half-sputter.
The summerglow of the gold-faced facades dampened, the trumpet songs muffled, perhaps a bit hurt.
This is not the same Krakow I once knew.
But nor am I the same Kevin.
May 15, 2013
If you live your life in a state of sustained refrainment from ever disturbing, interrupting or manipulating reality in any way, then you cannot claim to be alive. You have merely resigned yourself to your lot in life as an extra on a movie set, contentedly following your directions to never speak more than an unintelligible murmur or go off track or disturb the scene in any way — to merely serve as a background decoration, a low-paid prop granting illusory verisimilitude to someone else’s grand illusion. And as such, you’ll live life as a mere passing blur, an insignificant amorphous figure floating amongst a crowd of uncountably more forgettable amorphous figures. You will receive your meagre wage and not be listed in the credits. You’ll try to spot yourself when the feature film rolls, and chances are your single frame was left on the cutting room floor. And that will be that, and you will one day die and no one would notice the difference. You’ll be just as you were.
Think about it.
The task of the writer, the artist, the musician, the creator — which is to say all of sentient humankind — is first and foremost to interrupt reality in some way. To make waves, to stir up the dust, to illuminate new possibilities, new modes of being, existing, thinking, feeling, to reconfigure the established order, and when a new order arises, to destroy that as well. For order leads to predictability which leads to numbing of the soul. Indeed, the task of mankind is to breath life into the dead and dying and to suffocate that which deadens.
April 17, 2013
April 13, 2013
So. This is how the sun rears its arse, this is how the madness happens.
Yes, you hear the acapella gypsy music, drum-thumping melodic, emanating form an unmarked cellar. And yes, you wander down for a curious gander. There, the sun doesn’t shine. But there the madness dances.
Wide-eyed, you’re invited into the inner sanctum of the Albanian Hunting Society, to their impromptu old-man Balkan fiesta. Gold-toothed and merry, they regale with tales of wild bores slain and the women they’ve claimed and the ways of this wild wild world, the compass points in this land unnavigable.
Never mind the world upstairs, never mind the unwinding of time up there, they tell you. And yes, they feed you brandy and nary let your glass run dry. And they chortle and swig and point you some strange way.
And then you find yourself somewhere beyond possibility. A dual daycare/tattoo parlor. Surrounded by a gaggle of five-year olds giggling at your grimaces of shut-eyed open-mouthed pain as their half-baked teacher inks your milky skin.
Clockspun hours and a pint or two later, you’ve got a Google image search compass scrawled upon your arm. Directions and polarities and pointers for those long days of sun-drenched disorientation, those sun-slugging summer days to come.
And as the sun rests its lazy arse, yes, you think, this how the madness happens.