Archive for December, 2009

The Nonsense of Incubation

Posted on December 27, 2009

Devour

Devour

The room in which you sit is almost barren.

It is filled to the brim with games and memories and knick-knacks and words and ghosts and ribbons won at state-fairs long ago.

This room is miniscule in size and rather amorphous in its shape.

It is roughly the size of a high-school gymnasium and was clearly designed by one of those early, radical Cubists.

There is no way out of this room.

There are three doors. One leads to the closet. One leads to a hallway.

And the one with the daunting metal lock on it leads to the outside.

There is also a small window that floats far, far above your head.

There is no glass in this window and so you’ve become well acquainted with the feral whims of Mother Nature and the robust fury of her elements.

You should relocate.

You should switch up the view and explore life against another wall. But you don’t.

You think, “Maybe tomorrow…”

Which is the very same thought you had yesterday.

You sit Indian-style atop a wooden futon and devour a crust-free cucumber and cream cheese sandwich, which has been cut into four efficient triangles.

All the while, blueberry-sized bits of gravel are being dispatched through the pane-less opening near the ceiling.

They seem to be launched with force, perhaps by a hellion with a slingshot.

They pelt you hard in the abdomen.

You feel like this assault should be painful or at least evocative, somehow.

Shouldn’t you be moved to build a ladder out of all the useless chattel in your midst?

Might this ladder and the act of creating it, aid in the possibility of eradicating the omni-present torpor that plagues you?

“There is sense in the thing…” you think. Still, you are dubious.

“Say I do build this ladder and climb its rungs…then what?”

“Am I meant to cover the opening or am I expected to crawl through it?”

Such lyrical questions deserve shrieking, passionate answers…

And since you’ve nothing of that ilk prepared, you opt instead to focus on the refreshing and delicious cucumber crunching between your teeth at present.

You decide that while pickling a cucumber seems to be a relatively straightforward and rewarding process; turning a pickle back to a cucumber would likely be a challenging feat, steeped in disappointment. Indeed.

Satisfied that you’ve effectively banished all notions of ladders, and bridges, and tunnels, and viaducts and have successfully reverted to benign acceptance for the moment; you place the plate on which your sandwich had lived inside the dumbwaiter and ring a bell for service.

(The room also has a dumbwaiter. You’d once considered it a ‘way out,’ but that was before you knew better.)

‘Smarting’ has ceded to ‘throbbing’ and the red, gravel-induced welts which adorn your abdomen are beginning to become blood-filled blisters.

Still you reason, “I’ll mobilize when I am moved to.”

You languidly reach for a nearby stack of books and ashes and who-knows-what-else. You’ve been meaning to organize these piles for some time now…

There is a newspaper near the top, dated sometime-before-today. You typically shun the news, but you rationalize that its contents are no longer news precisely, rather history.

You skim the letters which form words, until your eyes focus on a small sidebar below the fold.

The headline reads:

“A Tale of Nothing Much”

There was once a moderately happy couple who indulged a moderately lengthy courtship, before marrying in a moderately fancy wedding. They were wed for a moderate amount of time before they divorced. They split their moderate assets evenly and drove away from the situation in their respective mid-range vehicles, each moderately unscathed. They went on to loathe one another only a moderate amount.

“The whole thing seems rather unremarkable…” you muse and then toss the paper aside.

“Enough organization for now,” you decide.

A cicada has penetrated the aperture in the wall, and now buzzes near your ears and forehead.

You swat at it mildly and then close your eyes in attempt to pretend that it isn’t there.

You figure it’ll leave soon.

You would leave if there were a way out.

But there isn’t.

You remove a necklace which holds a weighty key from around your neck, and place it atop the metal toolbox on the floor next to the futon.

You need a nap.

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Shifting Paradigms

Posted on December 26, 2009

The Chasm

The Chasm

Things are happening. Changing.

The paradigms are shifting.

These movements are at once very fast and yet almost imperceptible to the naked eye.

As they should be. As they must be.

After all, there are those among us who are ill-prepared for the revolution.

Revolt!

The word, even in its simple, written form, clatters and crashes and splatters itself across the tablet.

I am filled with revolt.

Forever in the process of ‘coming around’, ‘rethinking’, and ‘retooling.’

Coup d’whatever-the-eff-I-am-currently-railing-against…

And lately, I’ve been trying to overthrow the very pattern itself…

After all, it can be ever so tiresome living in this constant state of upheaval…

Fear not, I am stating this simply as a means of explanation for my experimentation.

I have not permanently abandoned my characteristic esprit de guerre.

I am merely playing. I am dipping an explorational toe into the other side…

The more innate side of the affair, if you will…

And so I experimentally ask, “What of the natural breaks?”

Why don’t we ever give them the opportunity to show us what they’re made of?

What if we gave wild revolution the day off, and let the proverbial chinks in the armor appear when they might?

What if, just for kicks, we were to trust that natural selection will create the appropriate clumps and deposit all of life’s little idiosyncrasies into their proper categories; thus allowing for a natural situational breaking point to occur?

And now, imagine if such things were possible without any input from us whatsoever…

And so, with my ego shivering and fearful in the corner, I boldly posit this notion…

What if we really can have it all?

Why must the momentous overhaul of revolution always be accompanied by

unnatural, cataclysmic, golf-ball-sized-hail fallout?

Fuck.

Please pay no mind to my ego as it drowns in possibility.

So now, let’s suppose that we’ve succeeded in ceasing our attempts to cause the effect, and now we’re allowing the natural breakpoints to do our dirty work for us, and though we find ourselves slightly under-whelmed, we are sort of comfortably numb in the way that the simple-minded people might be…

And now we fill the space formerly occupied by the boisterous battle by breaking bread with the enemy, an act that was never possible back when we were annihilating everything in our paths in the name of “Revolution!”

“This is quaint,” I decide, “in some progressively, passive-aggressive way, anyhow…”

Still, it occurs to me that the shock value of my newfound placidity will, at some juncture, wear thin.

At which point, the battle will return. As it must.

Eternally.

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