Conspire

Those that know me well will know that I hate many things. But there is one thing that I hate most of all, yes, even more that certain weirdly specific types of equines. 

It's conspiracy theories.

We all hate them to some degree. But, the reason why I hate them is, I think, rather unique. 

They prevail that this world is not as it seems. That it is a curtain for something darker, and deeper. Something interconnected and strange and complex. But what is this thing that works the puppets?

So, it's aliens.

No, wait. It's the CIA. 

Ah, no, it's the lizard people, who wear human skin. 

It's that damned illuminati! Keeping us in the dark!

Of course, none of these things are real. They're ridiculous. Phenomenally. 

But I don't have a problem with them being ridiculous. I find that reality is frequently ridiculous. 

I have a problem with them, because they're boring. The whole vast universe, a great rip piling ocean of mystery. And yet, the best you can come up with are little grey dudes who want to probe you in interesting places?

No, the truth is infinitely vaster and more true than that. 

The very concept of infinity cannot be grasped by a human mind. Whatever strange denizens lurk beyond this small circle of firelight, they are far beyond the comprehension of you and I. 

Do they pull the strings? Are there strings to pull? Does it watch us? He, or she, it and they, all useless. Language is incapable of even giving the most vague name to whatever it is that you and I feel when we hear the reaper sharpening his scythe. That fear of mortality. It's more that just that, isn't it?

We're conditioned to ignore it. But it's there. Squirrelled away in the back of our minds. Everything we do is a distraction from it.

The strangeness of sentience makes us know it is there.

This weird vagueness is all that can be put into words. It is beyond us to know.

The Unremembering

There is a difference, you see, 

Between forgetting. 

And unremembering. 

I have dreams, or dreams of dreams. 

There is the snake lady, so silvery, so green, so silky. 

She asks me, "Oh pretty boy, why do you want to be God-King?" 

I say something or other. 

She says, "Oh pretty boy, don't get distracted," 

The knight, so lost, opaque in his loneliness, ever so nearly transparent. 

"You must be what you must be!" He says. 

I say a thing or two.

"You must not wallow! You must struggle! You must walk!"

They fight.

The snake lady, she strikes his armour. Long, beautiful fangs.

He holds her so tightly. Her scales reflect his strong grip.

I leave them to their battle.

Never pausing, well, only to speak to me again. 

I wait for the drums. 

Do they fight?

I have forgotten. 

One forgets most everything, wandering through the library, the titles on the spines, strange hieroglyphs, the air, baked and cooled, the grey marble walkway, the echo of my own footsteps. 

If there is peace, it is in the unremembering. 

Couch Potato

So, look, life is complicated. Life and what comes after.

But you know what isn't complicated?

Television.

It's beautiful. It's simple. It's pure.
It's the answer.

I remember when dad came home with our first television. I remember watching that expressionless black screen... come to life. To speak. To act. It understood me. It loved me. And I loved it, forever.

People don't think about that word much. What it means. How long it is.

Back when, well, y'know, before, I had friends. Girlfriends. Boyfriends. Family. Co-workers. I used to run and drive and swim. Rock Climbing, stage diving, lovemaking.

But none of it meant as much to me as that single, simple box in my lounge room. It was like... You know those Buddhists? How they do that praying stuff? And they, like, get in touch with the universe or something?

A chick in a bar once, she said to me

"I hate TV. It's crap. It's old."

I punched her.

That's how it is for me. That's how I watch Tv. Nothing matters. Nothing.

So, when he came, you know, Him, he was all, "We gotta go,"

And I was all, "No way man. Get lost. You're blocking the set. I love this show,".

So he said, "Fine. I'll be back later."

But I wasn't listening. There was a funny ad on. It had a dog who caught a Frisbee. Classic.

Sometimes there are other people on my couch. I don't care. Sometimes they turn the set off. But I can still watch it. I just turn it back on.

The electrician came, because one of the people was complaining about it. "Dunno what's wrong with it lady. Just get a new one."

But it didn't matter. I was still there. I could still watch my shows. Hey neat. Cartoons are on.

What was I saying? Oh yeah. The people.

They went away. They all went away after a while.

He came back. You know.

Him.

He said, "You've been here too long. You're too old. You're too lost. You gotta come with me,"

And I was like, "Shuttup man. I can't hear what the newsguy is saying."

He sighed. He left. What a buzz-kill.

I hear one day, all the sets will be broken.

But not mine. Still got it. Right here.

I hear one day, God will burn the Earth.

That don't matter. So long as the quiz show still rolls. And it will.

I hear, one day, the sun will go out.

That don't matter. They'll still show re-runs.

Hear that one day, entropy and energy will finish their fight. That the multiverses will collapse. That heat-death will come, and everything will end.

That don't matter. Because I'll still be right here. On my couch. Watching weekend specials. And midnight classics. And the morning news.

I'm not worried.

My life story

This is what I'm okay with my life story being:

He was born.

He grew up.

He said some things, and did some things. Because he thought some things.

Some guys liked them. Others didn't.

He drank a lot of beverages.

He owned plenty of stuff.

He met a bunch of guys.

He died of being pretty old.

Some guys were sad. Others weren't.

Eternal Surprise

To those who are surprised,
That I am the way I am,
I am pleased at your findings. 
For this is what I am.

I am peace and thought, and kindness.

I am darkness and blood and teeth.

I am piety, and love and forgiveness.

I am bitterness, and anger, and hate.

I am logic, and reason and science.

I am creation, and whimsy, and art.

I am atoms, arranged in beautiful pattern.

I am a soul, bound to wasted mortal coil.

I am lust, and greed.

I am chastity, and charity.

I am a child, who blinks at the light.

I am an old man, who huddles in the shade.

I am ego.

I am faith.

Within me are two wolves.

And they are bound together.

I am all these things, and though they are contrary, or impossible, I am them.
I cannot be otherwise. I do not know how.
Nor do I want to.

Because it makes me pleased to see your surprise.

The Man of La Mancha

If I could have been anything.

I would have been noble.

I would have been true.

I would have been kind.

I would have been humble.

I would have been fair.

I would have been strong.

I would have been beautiful.

Sickness would have been nothing to my body.

No wound would haved injured my will to live the life of a good man.

Alas.

A shark can only be a shark.

A rat can only be a rat.

A worm may dream of being other than a worm.

But it is the making of this world that things are as they are.

That is its wonder.

That is its terror.

That is its tragedy, that its futility.

That is why we dream our impossible dream.

The Man I Loved

I met a man, that I loved.
He was clever, and handsome.
He was generous, and kind.
He was good, and strong.

He turned out alright in the end.

But,

It was what preyed on him.
There were strange things that bit him,
Long lonely bites they gave.
They gnawed at him, in the deep.

It was this that made him lost,
It was this that made him cruel.
It was this that made him scream at God.

It was this that made him ferocious.

But his ferocity was tempered with fear,
Because he knew these things that bit him deep,
Would too be the things that bit others.

That he had a disease.
And it was contagious, if one weren't careful.

But I loved him.


He's dead now.