And still the physical dark looks out on us, spirit-worldly and dark, out the dull yellow face of the moon, and out the thick black planets, and the glaring stars. For we are against them. Clouds, stars, sun, moon, they plot against us. For we have fallen, we have fallen, we have turned on them. Even God glares at us within the sun.
You see we've hung day on the cross. And buried him, and expect no resurrection. And even fewer angels. None to weep at all.
We too banner the cross.
What we need is a new human fire of life. New fire and new metaphor to wake us from the deep, deep steel slumber of modern life.
I could write my hate all night, I've got a life of it in me. Can't you see, can't you see how you've done me? Integrated me into a life that's all wrong. Busy damn people everywhere making their own hell. Always words words words. I'm damn well sick of words and thoughts. Nobody gives a damn except for their own mind, their own little collection of beliefs, what they “know.” What does it matter what anybody knows, we've still got to live. We've still got to be men and women. Why do we attack ourselves, our one chance to live, with all our own thinkings and mental grapplings. Why always such great mental struggles. Why so much damn thinking. I only wish some land to be alone and free of it all, and the food I need, and the woman I need, who doesn't think, and forest quiet and night quiet, and natural days and a friendly sun.
Just keep the tools of man's mechanical/mental hell away from me, out of my sight and touch and smell. I want to be damn free of it.
How a man can fear death and eternal hell I cannot understand: he's here right now, and it looks eternal enough to blot out completely his short life.
Always I wonder if I'll ever escape from miserable life. Brought up without regard or care for my body, brought up as a mind only, an 'idea' of God, immersed totally in the mental life that disdains physical atoneness. Brought up in the damn unbalance that is so typical of modern man: life run from the head. Brought up like this, a choiceless child, spurred on by the desire for love, I became chained in the cycle. Eyes gone rotten and half-blind, soul blind as well. And no chance for decent life save by more exploitation of my own mind: for that is the only legal way to earn a living now. I am already a creature down, vitally hurt, and the natural pettyness and snappyness of this world only eats away at my health more and more—won't let up, or let me up. I damn damn damn cities. I damn damn damn suburbs. I damn damn damn small towns. All're the same: petty people snapping about with their minds. Damn, I am injured. I hate it, all about me everywhere, like a disease. I want franticly to shake it off my hands. It eats at me. I am sick. My eyes are very sick. My mind is worn to a worried nub. And I am trapped. Nowhere to go. Always you need money for food to eat. Always laws eating away at you more. No place to harbor but is infested. A shitass civilization that is absolutely repulsive, vulgar, nitpicking. It won't let you be.
I only ask to be something other than a victim: to be free of all the bother of men and their things, women and all their things. I just want to live simply, like I was born to.
But they hold you by the tail for money and tribute. They hold everything belonging to life for a ransom. You can't have land, or merely live on it, first you must buy it with money, then you must return tax-tribute. You can't even marry without sanction from the rest of men and women, which is the final insult. Roads are splayed everywhere and fences, and poison-cloud making factories. And always the ransom of money is held over your head. And the constant mental chatter of men everywhere, women everywhere you go. Sold so easily into betrayal and damn pointless living. Absolutely commercialized lives.
Anyway, it doesn't matter. My life is so far miserable and wasted, soul in me betrayed to death, and I grow high-strung for escape. But I don't know how or where. I only know I hate my life so far, hate myself for having no blood and no sanctity.
I'm damn well fed up with words. I want touch. Not to die. Just a chance to live, and so be a man. For once something right.
Even now the queer eyes look out at us, seated so before our livingroom boxes with hypnotic attention. It is some strange animal speaking to us, and it draws the queer eyes with brows wrinkled up. It is no animal, not alive; that they sense at once; yet, still, listen; for it speaks. It speaks the sure-fire and the mechanical. Appeals to the death in us, the white rotting stomachs that give way like infested sawdust: we stomach too much. All rot inside and gullible. Let them thrill us to changing styles, changing lives. A boat we must own, and live the seashore thrills. Until, at least, we feel all wet, and want a dry change. Then it will be cars again, or motorcycles, or airplanes. Let us fly. Anything that will thrill. What does the T.V. say next?
The queer otherworld eyes wince at this, and look in, and make nothing of it. Only, it's nothing for a woman, a man to do. To play subject to a livingroom box. Not for life!
CoffeeandTeaShow