Dispatches from a Wide-Eyed Wayfarer.
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.
February 17, 2013
There on the stark silent streets of Tirana, I lost my only mind. There on the lunar streets of Tirana, I gave it to the laugh-gasping wind. And when you see the mange-mouthed street dog gnawing on it fierce and starving, give him a wink and keep shuffling. He means no harm. And when you see the soot-stained song birds pecking at it, hum them an ancient dirge. Not for you they have forgotten how to sing.
Yeah, the fridge is empty, the bottles are dry, the weekend is over. I’m a few quid poorer, but richer for it still. A trickle of blood drips from my brow, a splotch of blood gathers on my hand. Yes, I bleed and yes I heal. Because this is how we mumblestumble towards redemption, this how we growl at the cloud-clad sun. Grand, yeah, this is how was stare hollow-eyed hurt at the passing moons and this is how we mad-stagger silent towards a violent Spring.
Stay warm, now, Stay golden and strong. The months are dwindling now and soon you shall breath easy and long. The clocks will spin and you will sin and soon this madness shall become music, this cacophony shall turn to song.
March on, Kevin, weary and awake. March on for those that slumber and those cannot sleep. March on, Kevin, never bother looking back.