First tear of the downpour, turned torrent floods clean the streets of debris. A breeze at last, one that is not more humid than water. Distant sirens sing harmony with the swollen kettle. At last it’s cool enough for tea. Camelia petals flutter in my home and the the call. Gut wrenching, soul crushing, she’s dead. In that perfection to my perception, she died. Where to now, well no where, for her, she has found eternity. But that is insignificant, it is what happens to us. the ceremony , the grief, a loss like no other. Unconditional love proven false. How could I exist beyond her? So on the couch, I occupy space, for days, months, a year maybe, while she has been incinerated and place in a lovely jeweled jar. When I went to visit her empty home I forgot to look at that jar, it made no sense. In death, others deny her true reincarnation, Kept isolated some where on a mountain.side useless to all her surroundings, what is her purpose? It was nothing to do with humanity and then again, everything does. We are star dust, don’t forget it.
Only she is stuck in a porcelain black hole. Antimatter certainly. At least for those who have found sleep in a common grave, they lend great service to worms. And god - well god is dead.
two concentric circles.
July 5th 2001, I had called him on the fourth, morphine freshly injected non-sensical slurs. He said he loved me and that the fourth of July would make a lovely memory - un beau Souvenire.
On the 7th a phone call from Ricka, a wild redheaded flemish woman who seemed to pride herself on the tufts of flame orange hair which had a tendency to startle the average American. He died early the morning of the 5th. He didn’t want his children to know. The funeral is tommorrow at 11 am. I was invited to late, physically impossible to travel that far and still have my time to weep. So instead I finished unsettled business and at the first available moment caught a flight. A fine distraction on the side, something my father would have approved of. On arrival, Phillipe sat me down at dinner, it was outside with the backdrop of the Cevenes Mountains, a millionstars, with gas station wine at our disposal.
He took his own life - your father is the bravest man I have ever known. Dignity to the last second. So with the help of a doctor - her address is still in my bag- he began the suicide. Morphine - then he gave himself an enema so as not to leave any uncomfortable, or unpleasant situations post mortem. Then the dose which should have killed him. Well that did NOT WORK!
So Phillpe called the docotr and she came back with more death drugs. My father still stumbling finally rested in bed. His last words to all who were with him - Bon c’est fini, le spectacle est fini.
3. what meaning
I am an insect, or nothing more than a lowly ameoba. To live, to experience, it all as if tommorow is hypothetical. Thrills, love, heartache, wild times, forgigiveness, all or nothing. If I could only rationalize children - but there are too many - and we are not alone here let us not forget. We feed off the skeletons of the dead, the wisdom, the fuel, evolution for crying-out-loud- so none.. I die, so be it, you die, I will mourn but not too much since that would be silly.
Pain killers may have blurred or slurred intent, but may be there is no better dream-like state.
Floating through my days, sleeping so soundly at night, All or nothing, everything is here for YOU, the one reading this now. Ask, swindle, plead, be a good neighbor and the world is at your disposal. Magic only exists if you have the balls and ambition to grab it - kiss me, kiss me deadly - with your bad blood, and I will be a black and white flicker reflected on the orb of your eye. I donate all my stupid trinkets to charity - by Gis and by St. Charity - a lack and fie for shame.
4.hopes and fears
I hope I will have found that plate-smashing love I have wanted forever. I can only aspire to
die with the kind of dignity my father had. Fear is not an issue, or not in death itself- but in the end of life will I have finished? It’s not a real fear of course, my life is full now, I could be quite
content if that was it , die semi annonymous it’s ok, Maybe I fear an after life, when it end I hope thats it! No dreams. No god, no salvation or damnation. I hope we are the physical, even our thought are the physical, neurons, dendrites working to orchestrate it all. We end - our purpose? CHILDREN- but No, we have no purpose now deviant behavior has replaced our drive, our lust. I FEAR I want children anyway. Baby art, the currators would raise it. Erase my life after I’m done, remember me as entity # 1,564 - that will make me happy. Or maybe I fucked up and I am all wrong. I fear that a bit, but only a bit.