Monday, June 14, 2010

Drinking the Brew of the Bent Mother

I feel like every so often I get on here, scream and shout about the world, then feel defused and affable for a bit, maybe discussing some magic, until it creeps up again with a thousand eyes of hatred and teeth of steaming, solid malice.

I would pretend at slaying this monster, perhaps to think that I might emerge the bright solar hero and gain the accolades of the kingdom. That secret, deep down, is that I really, truly, hate the kingdom, and really I just want the monster to do what it does in a less short term manner. I want to till the soil with this fury; I want to plant trees who bear fruits of despair. I want the world to see its own horrible black heart of hate. I want everyone to know all of which they are capable, for only in our depths of villainy, deceit and torture can we understand what it means to care.

If we are, indeed, the royal gift of the divine, and if indeed we contain universes within us, then no matter how we attempt to purge our bodies and souls of the muck and horror, we still contain that filth. We are unclean. We contain in ourselves rapists, torturers, manipulators, bigots, despots, enablers, thieves, brigands, and all manners of the vile professions. The only possible way to keep these villains from running rampant over our lives and the lives of others is to embrace them. We have an imperative to love all, including ourselves, and especially including the horrible within ourselves. If we bring these truths to light, we may yet utilize their abilities without excuse or apology. We will know our "enemies," for our enemies are ourselves, have always been ourselves, and will always be ourselves.

We are BP. I am BP. I haven't done a goddamned thing about that oil spill. I haven't traveled down to the Gulf to help clean up. I haven't put any effort into shaming the creator of Girls Gone Wild out of business. I haven't lifted a finger to reduce the crime rate of my city. I haven't cleaned up any of the litter blowing around my streets. I have spent time watching the vicarious inane actions of the unsuspecting on reality TV in lieu of traversing the path my heart has laid out. I have lied to countless people and I have padded myself well on the larder of others. I have allowed myself to follow in the wake of others' ambitions like a remora, or a tick. I have discarded my fire in the name of flaccid tranquility. If I were to tally up my perfidy I would have an excellent corner of Hell situated for me on conspiracy alone, to say nothing of deception. That said, I doubt incarceration would do much to change my ways. I have a vengeful heart that forgets easily, yet forgives in the same manner that a single ant might count grains of sand. That said, I forgive my vengeance, my envy, my sloth, my gluttony, my lechery, my vanity and my greed. I forgive my perjuries and my perfidies, in order that I may surpass the need and desire to resort to their usage. They characterize me just as much as my accolades and accomplishments; not at all.

We still walk a meaningless void as the dangling phalanges of some unseen process. How well might we submit to this process? How might we destroy the "I," the frozen chunk of detritus that meanders down our stream? Come forth, Beast; I lay down my sword in order that you consume me, and I shall issue forth from your belly with your secrets.

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