What matters? The stone or the throw?
No, I’m not being a political moron. I’m not political at all, I ponder literature and with the greatest of interest. Lilting, lovely, lofty, lulling language-literature. Nobody likes a conspiracy theorist on the opposite side of a substantial answer, so listen carefully to what I say. Is literature, the stone or the throw? It matters, you know.
Literature is a story turned into an image by those who cannot stand a story. The stake that pierces the heart turns into a phallic symbol in the mouth of a wanton virgin. That interpretation at least provide the weary a much-deserved pause; what type of mind twists violence into a symbol? A theologian with a point to make; he’s not mentally ill? Maybe a Phd who wants the world of academia to shrug off the uptight demeanor of higher education.
So I pay for the post modern pages of ink and typeface paper. I love particularly the critic’s comment that a dead writer wrote in a modern style. The author is before his or her time is often a favorite waste of pen and page. I consider a reader who sits within the comforts of a dusty, winged-back chair who tosses such books aside knowing the dead scribbler reached 21st century stagnation before the rest of us.
I wander the streets of Chicago at night because I can; because I’m old and read all the sunny day long in a room without windows and where the air pushes its way into my rectangular basement through stainless steel tubes. I am a god (notice the small ‘g’ please) among the crowds that inhabit this metropolis and pave its roads and destroy its beauty into another sort of beauty. All the while contemporary writers enlighten the living, breathing cynic of the terrors of the past, the savagery of existing under a world with no written word but for a select few who enforced rigid morality. The woes of humanity, how did they survive?
Fuck is an old acronym. Urban legend? Well, you know best.
I don’t compose a single sentence; I read. When I’ve had my fill I sit and hold the glossy shiny magazines under the electric lights which the municipality provides. Reading the articles is pointless but reading the critical reviews of novels which none will recognize in 100 years is a romp. I hide in the plain light of darkness; I’m allowed to for now.
There is a problem. The hordes are catching on. There was a day in this 21st century I could drag the life out of a person and no one noticed. Those who did noticed yearned for me too. None interfered. Today a few are raising their crosses.
You think I mock? Or do you assume I jest? The ones with the power of the pen often do at the end but not me, I read, I don’t write, mock or jest. The best lie is one that is closest to the truth. Here is a key to the future; the audience has left. What does that mean? Here is your real answer; who will clean up this mess?
I walk as a god amongst those who have no want for good or evil, I will fight the war that is coming when the deceived readers become an indignant mob. It always happens.
I frankly don’t give a damn either way. It is not my business to discover a winner outside of myself or worry which sides wins as long as a continual movement of deception pushes along the time line.
I applaud the striving for self-actualization that everyone demands as a right rather than a responsibility. There we gods have done well, the mortal is no longer created but is an occurrence. Breathe deeply, locate the hum of the universe, a moment of joy will pull you along until another minute of… ecstasy.
I’ll read all your old stories verbatim and laugh. Yes, those solid answers that reveal truth. It’s not my fault you are looking for gratification. I will give you a moment of just that-gratification. Ah that moment of victory and then terror is worth a thousand lives and I have thousands more.
It is the throw.