I often think of things that might make you think, laugh or feel something. If they don't, that's okay. It's just that you don't have a soul.
An Ode To Hunter.
So I haven’t written anything since September. Consider this the breaking of the drought.
An Ode To Hunter.
___________________
Such Arrogance.
Do you really think that someone such as you could have the world before them?. No, you won’t. You are before the world - You are on trial. You have much to answer for. And you will answer. Because the questions we ask are fundamental. To you and to us. Let the judgment begin.
Such Exuberance.
A skill. A Talent. A most valuable defense. But should you hide yourself so well, to hide even from your own prying mind? What have you hidden away in your depths? What nagging shadow calls you to account? To your knees to beg, to leave you alone in darkness.
Such Passions.
A commitment. A woman. A moment of joy. All shall lay you down to lie by still waters. But do you reckon with your imitators, who do your act so poorly? They are a danger unto themselves, not to mention others. Not to mention you. Not to mention your reputation. Not to mention anything of value you could create.
Such Meaning.
You had meaning. Even, and especially, when you had no meaning. To make meaning out of nothing was your art. To see the best in everyone, even when they were no one. Even when they were lower than no one. Even when they wanted to be alone, with only themselves, to die and be remembered for dying. To be no one. Even they had meaning in your eyes.
You were never important while everything around you sunk into the history of the world. You were never more than a witness. An unfortunate witness, on which nothing could be blamed. I wonder, did you mean for it to be that way? I’m sure you would have loved it if we thought that it was all you. That you were at the heart of it all, shaping in your own subtle way, the way of the world, of everyone. You would have loved it. If only your eulogy had in the words “He was the best of us.” Well. Maybe you were. But you were only a witness. Only a witness.
And that is all we can blame you for.
Cure for Boredom?
So I open up my notebook and this is what I find:
“I’ll get a… rock. From the ground. And run after things, and hit them… with the rock.”
I don’t know what I was referring to there, but I’m sure it was a good idea at the time. Incidentally, following every random idea is certainly a good way to go about things. Shit, it’s the basis of creativity, the basis of insanity. Want to listen to strangely fascinating Choir-laced Techno? Do it. What have you got to lose by this change in routine? Want to cover your room with glow-in-the-dark stickers? There’s nothing wrong with a room that glows with awesome. How about another coffee, mixed with Milo, made with honey, drank from a bowl? Shit, pour me three!
I guess everyone needs practice at mixing life with life. Everything is a good idea if it doesn’t lead to death or pain. People make excuses about what they are really after - love, fun, happiness, to do good, to be just, to help people, ect. Liers. Collectively, in our own ways, we want a good laugh and some kicks. Admit that and nothing is boring, nothing is unpleasant, and we can stop being assholes to each other and get on with our own thing.
Different Directions.
So, what are you going to do? Be a bar pianist? Play your life, put it into key, only to have drunks and pseudo-bogans to throw a coin into your hat? That’ll be your life, scratching off the top of a blackjack table with piano keys. No body notices one man in the sea of men, with the same black suit, black tie and black shoes. How did he earn it? Forty bucks an hour to keep people entertained, to keep their faces on their cards, on the next drink, in C Sharp Minor. That’s where you stand, isn’t it?.
Or you sit in a circle and play drums and sing and laugh and harmonize with the night, then stalk off into darkness, with no company but your own mind. It’s all that is there. Your mind and that’s it. No company in the night, nothing but a vacant street corner and darkness.
Find a long forgotten structure and make it your own for one lone moment. It’s a life of moments. Events strung together like drops of water, shimmer bright in the sun, and then go dark. Each drop looks the same, but why not each be different? And you think, what COULD mine look like? What could have happened in any of those moments? And then the day closes, the moment dies, the night ends, and all you have left is doubts and fustrations.
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The Monks
Ten Monks sit in a circle chanting. They don’t see the shadow in the corner that watches them. The shadow just sits there, never flinching, drawing in their cries and harmonies that ring out in the night. The Trees make their own music, and it mixes with the monks as they call out names and places and shout from the circle. The drum beats and the chants go on, long into the night. The shadow joins the monks singing with his own. The monks are there for the moment, and the moment never ends.
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I see your strange series of drawings, Asher, and I raise you one surrealistic landscape.
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