There is anger in me, and anger, unexpressed sits like a snake around the bowls—coiling, tensing, suffocating…
The need to write comes with the anger, a command, an order that I make for myself, and execute.
Only it’s not as simple as executing a command. A soldier is not an artist, only the material for the art. No programmatic approaches. No guarantee it will be felt… here on the page—only, only it must be felt, must be…
No questions. Just the body roaring itself into existence, just the presence of abutting continental shelves sounding the alarm; something is wrong, something is sick, something is out of order.
Within the tension, a core: heat. The fire of life resounding through veins of fingers compressing keys-on-board, slowly shaping, shaping, into what ?
A Golem? Conglomeration of time, movement, and energy—life, or a statue?
—Live, live— old Michelangelo thrust his hammer against Moses visage. CRACK. The stone had cooled. No longer pliable, or labile. The imagination had burned itself out. But where, where does it go?
The process begins again, and again—endless—why even give yourself over to this silly task of building sand castles? Those are the words of a Joker, turned sour. Lets use the sour too, lets use the bitterness, grind it up into tiny flakes, and season the anger stew—
I am coming after you—YOU. Humbaba sleeping in the forests of mind. You, who still clings to the dreams of mommy and daddy, — a beautiful golden thread formed into the shape of a noose. The time has come to face the whirlwind; be blown apart by the shape of words.
I gather up the page I have just written, and crunch it into a ball. Over at the sink, I wet it, and grind it up in my hands, until there is just a sopping pulp, and the tendons in my forearms ache and spit. But there is a sloshing within, a morning sickness that clings to the bed—soldier on, do not do as orpheus did. I stagger over to the oven. Into the fire at last; the pulp congeals into silver liquid. I have the mould ready . And the spear is thrown.
A great gasp went up in the forest. The tears of birds, and deer met the earth in long, protracted streams. The innocent life of nature could not continue. No longer is killing just an extension of the magnificent cycles of the mother. No, I have harnessed the flames, and murdered.
Humbaba walks with a child, hand in hand they go like Jack and Jill, descending the steps of Erebus. Farewell, Farewell dear friends, my loves, my life. Farewell dear ones.
Hades takes them gladly, clever man that he is, turns their tears into a silver drops out of which he fashions the mirror that hangs in my bedroom.
I face this mirror. There is anger there, coupled with wit.
Why write? Why now? Why engage this phantasmagorical retinue?
Because It moves. Moves me away from the falsity of unfeeling. Every sentence etched in the heart is a small victory.
There are powers on this Earth that demand an overcoming. Bodies are erased daily by digital scrubbers. But this is peddled as medicine by Warlocks in Ivy towers. How is this come about?
There is anger here, unexplored, unthought, and warranted. Only come come, show me the extent of this web?
You want it too easy. You’ve not suffered enough, do not indulge in false suffering, this is a sin.
I don’t want to hear these words. I think they are false, base, moralizing. Only they are also the truth.
It would be easier, if the silver spear I forged could continue flying, and pierce through the miasma of mind in one grandiose and resplendent arch. But this ain’t TV. The TV’s here, in our mind placed with precision by the thought police.
We’ve got you now, dunderhead. Got you caught scrambling from pole to pole. I.V’d to the silver screen. Unable to act without LIVING the categories we’ve created.
Cooling now, ending in doubt. Where is the fire, the flame which propelled this wording? All gone. Albion sleeps again. No chance, no way to wake.
I sink into my seat. Feeling that fawn of defeat, cowering in the headlights of the hunter. What use this little exercise of freedom? What can thoughts do in the face of all this?
I get down on the floor, knees to chest, and mutter strange words. They grow more coherent, in shape. I need something. Send me something. Send me a thread in the shape of a Character !
Hades steps back on to stage:
It’s not enough to to leave childish things behind. Thats only the beginning, you do understand that, good man? What would you like a sticker? Well listen up, buck. If you want to build a new earth, then you’ll have to lay all mentation by the wayside. There are people like myself, who are much cleverer, then you, realize it, and try, only try to slip into their minds. By feeling alone will this be accomplished, and thats enough. The building of a second earth cannot come to pass until you’ve visited these Personalities in detail. Find them. Seek out the perspectives of the vile without rejecting them. Come to understand these points of view, and then, then I can help you, my dear child-in-search-of-adulthood.
Coming Down To Earth 