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Jadugarr -> RE: Weaving Madness (5/14/2009 23:33:23)
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Chapter Four
War on the Homefront
"All items carried will be securely packaged,
tied and plainly marked with the name of the owner
and numbered in accordance with instructions obtained at the Civil Control Station.
The size and number of packages is limited to that which can be carried
by the individual or family group."
~ Wartime Civil Control Administration,
Evacuation procedures for Japanese-American residents
I do not despise the embodiment of man—the shell that walks and interacts. There is no regret; a son can love his mother for being his mother whilst knowing nothing other than his own inherent affection. It is all that, yet never so simple. It is not by logic or ultimate innocence that draws and connects; [man can only be with instinct]. Society raises order on the pedestal; it demands the perfection—our superegos to guide. For what is man but an animal sliding along the scales of justice. Perpetually unbalanced, morally distraught, and a commercial for sin. Hope is for the chance that order shall suffocate under the weight of the medals strapped around its neck.
The woman has not seen me since I was an immature. I’ve seen her since. She has aged—the mirror makes her look pretty. Perhaps the reflection holds her aspirations: reasons to wake and hurt, reasons put on her make-up, reasons to fit into her red dress. Yet, occasion can make the corpses walk to their graves. She is a hysterical one among hysterical others. Voices to fill the void of silence. This is the world as she would have remembered it. This is the world she believe she is a part of. Mother, sweet mother, the world you have birthed me to; mother, sweet mother, a playpen to your grave I have sentenced you.
You rest in a chair, and a woman begs you to keep your wake. Her eyes sparkle as your own dim—where have your memories gone? Your face has wrinkled through time and all it reflects is what used to be a smile of lament and happiness. Perhaps you are absent. Perhaps you have been misplaced. Oh, mother, sweet mother. You stare back at yourself through the mirror as you are painted pretty with purple lipstick and luscious products of the sort. What is it you see? What are you looking past? Time has gone, wished you’d not have waved it by? Oh, mother, sweet mother.
It is time for you to fit into your red dress. It shall sparkle and shine for what you wished to have been. May I ask what is the occasion? To put on your red dress and not have the soul to laugh heartily into the mirror? To whatever fate has met you, I see it grim. Do not hesitate. If you live now, there is still a life to be had—do not play it hallow, for I can still sense your desires. Oh, mother, put on you dress and look yourself in the mirror, you’ll know it’s still there.
And as your arms buckle as you push yourself from the chair, with the arm of your assistant wrapped about your shoulder, you will beg her to zip up the back of your dress. I know it will still fit you as if it were meant to. But, oh, mother, sweet mother, if you look into the mirror I shouldn’t think you shall come to laugh. Oh, mother.
That black dress does not sparkle and shine. When you look into the mirror, your eyes just seem to cloud. What happened to the memories? To you aspirations? Where is your laugh? Oh, mother, I can hear such a sweet symphony coming from outside. Cover your eyes as the hearse comes to pass—just close your eyes and listen closely. Do not cry. Just--lose yourself in the splendor of the requiem.
Oh, mother, sweet mother…
-
Your eyes seem to haze over. Your jaw drops ever so slightly, and you are left staring as the ashes. You have no halo to hang above your head, no self to concern yourself with. You are empty. For a brief moment you are the caricature of absence.
She opens her eyes to the concrete jungle. She looks but makes no impression.
He sits in his chair and stirs the wine in his glass. He moves but feels no motion.
They take another step up and reconstruct themselves.
*****
The devil is a lie even he can believe. Perhaps it is Stockholm syndrome. Blind yourself in unreason, falsities, and faith and you shall become seduced and hypnotized—grant them a finale, and surely they shall gather. It is the hope and reason for hope and reason. Trapped in your wheeled chair, the basis to your madness is illogic; you blame yourself and your damn bokononism. Even if you could walk, you can’t, you have done what you have done and because of it, that is what you shall do. Your chaos constructs the Dues ex Machina, and through structure the devil emerges from the machine.
Due to the fate of probability, it is the constant of variables to act indecisively. Watch for where you waver, for if your toes curl against edge of a drop, your end game shall be unforeseen. It is by no will, but due to existence itself. Everything is possible and the improbable are definite. Existence is quite the gamble. It was today I saw the body of a boy propped up against the blackest of an alleyway—his hands cupped, a pale face pure and a body emaciated. Whether he lives now or died a day before, he is no longer innocent; he is one of many—the ‘trash’ that litter the sidewalks—and it only takes so many people passing him by before he realizes no one cares for the small boy decomposing on a sidewalk infested with vermin. Man bore him an undesirable, and so he shall stay.
Innocent implies opportunity unmeasured. Yet time leads every born man to die upon the same bed—sooner or later everything oxidizes. Now they expect the man of gold to slide a few toes over the counter to help reconstruct the air they breathe. Their nation shall acknowledge them, and once the man of riches stands upon his own two feet and realizes there are no two feet to stand on, society will be there to ship him out before they close his eyes. Who shall care but the mother with tears in her roses wondering where all the laughter has gone.
There is no one left to worry about the shadow touching their children. Time has led to conclusion upon conclusion—events shall occur and there is no impact I shall ever make upon them. No contribution I can make to such an extent. Impatience is hardly a factor, but in search for reason, I find man with his sins so multidimensional. One day he shall look to the skies and see how much of a fool he was. I’ll be nothing more than the silhouette with a shovel, and behind every man shall be the shadow of his grave.
Give him the world, and show him the hell. Perfection shatters into tragedy, and who shall be there to blame? The man who slaughtered his family and had enough time to down a beer before dealing with the corpses bleeding out on his new carpet.
“Tiger got to hunt, bird got to fly; Man got to sit and wonder 'why, why, why?' Tiger got to sleep, bird got to land; Man got to tell himself he understand.”
~Kurt Vonnegut
-
Now you feel the pressure. Feel the ashes recreate themselves; you are reborn, and before the final grain of sand escapes, you take one last breath to scream.
She screams.
He screams.
*****
There is no heartless—to whom do I owe the sympathy? I am quite partial to the concepts, as pure and improbable as they are; you cannot perceive all the faults within a system so complicated that you are, quite simply, just a part of. It shall drought, and men shall drown in the rain. Look up to the empty skies and believe your beliefs. You cannot fix anything; any attempt to do so is complete ludicrous. Now, pick yourself up from your chair--you haven’t the feet to walk, but I haven’t danced in ages.
We can control nothing—all we can do is influence the outcomes, and that is how the world came to be. That is what’s most disgusting: man is not a product of design, there was no scheme--only the plausible factors that could twist the social evolution of man. Some would say that man is an improbable miracle, yet they never rationalize from anywhere other than their emaciated throne—a shallow vantage point from which the hallow whisper softly, and the world begins to quake.
Concrete wasteland. Under the haze and hustle, man’s lips crust and he begins to envy and lust. It has not rained in quite some time, and the tension is driving everyone a little bit closer to midnight. The blood is beginning to scab over; etched in the streets, these are the shadows that shall mark the existence of an archaic society. The end is inevitable; give a man a diamond and all he will see is the sparkle and shine.
In the end, there was only the end. There were no moments before, they were just the end. It has already been decided: everything ends the same. Every action is absolute before it occurs, and once it passes, it never happened. That is simply the beginning. Everything is set, and all that was set was absolutely for naught. There is no justice, there is no reasoning--in the end there is just the quick, cut to black.
Sin can bury six feet deep. It does not expire from the ashes. Burdens carries from beyond the grave, no matter how many petals and tears bind to your burial. There are four tombstones. Two are still reserved, and obligations cause me to visit. There are some that have gathered and gone, but a few remain. They are mostly leeches—their lips quiver, they restrain; no need to drool upon a sacred tombstone before the reading of the last will and testament can begin. He may have been a man of nature, but the dog has lost his lead.
I have already interfered with the natural order—spared the bloodshed to trigger more bloodshed. The oaf was stumbling about in a minefield and he saw nothing on either ends. Aggression can only cause more aggression, and fear becomes an offensive opportunity. War is a constant, an inevitability. In perspective, there is never a good and evil—there is only right and those who defend whatever ‘right’ so happens to be. War shall be, and no fourteen points will ever amount to do a damn thing.
In the end, war shall have been set and gone. Scars shall have never truly existed. There will be no sanctuary, no doubt, and in the final moments, we’ll all have learned how to stop worrying and love the fools.
-
As you reach the twelfth step, you can feel the staircase begin to crumble behind you; you find new breath and never even spare a glance behind you. You are innocent. Your blackness has been torn from beneath your skin, and know you stare unknowingly upon the final step which awaits you. They do not wish to murder you. They grant you the ultimate escape—you will no longer have to be. You were dead before you were born, and now you make your move for the final step.
She closes her eyes and slowly lets go of her breath. She thinks of no one but herself.
He locks his eyes shut as he begins to suffocate. He thinks of no one but himself.
*****
It’s slate of the meaningless. You see images that are never there, you become your own knowledge—it torments you. These are aspects of yourself which may never have happened or could come to pass, but in their own way, each of them composes your very being. You can perceive roses, or you will confine in the ash and blood. They are colorless, so you falsify them; see what you want to see, you’re only looking in a mirror. You’re a goddamned Rorschach, a blob without a mouth.
Perhaps you have conducted your wrongs, adhered to deceit, and winded to what love is. Irrelevant. For you, it is all irrelevant. You are welcomed to death, the paradise you never sought till the moment you drew envy and craze. You’ve seen how perfection cradles. So you’ve lied. You’ve lied to keep the tremors from shifting the sands on which you stood from crumbling your embrace. It has been told over and once again, and deep within your falsehood, where structure is the accumulated madness, you ask yourself how many times you and speak the truth till it becomes a lie.
With one final breath, you wouldn’t go out in a whimper or sigh. A desperate traitor who has already lost, still idolized by the people he chose to damn in his final moments. Man has sung his name, and vintage wine painted the walls. He is not you. One of them was wealthy, the other- a dead weight. Both thought too much of themselves. You were blood-drunk; never took the time to vent and spread your wealth amongst the pride, those who reflected your image. They were the plague, you became the plague, and in your final moments, you finally surrendered to time.
You do not abide. What I have done, no person can advocate—to the mallow, it is sickening, but I am action. I must admit to plank and corpse, defiled and turned about, I have stolen all of your skin. They may defile your operations of gluttony, but I have made claim to your wealth. Perhaps before the sun becomes nothing more than an eternal blanket of dirt, you would like to take one last gasp. Feel yourself suffocate as you breathe in. I want to hear you scream. Dead man. I want you to scream till the blood empties from your lungs. I’m sorry, dead man—dog—dead, you can’t scream without a mouth.
It has not rained. I can feel my own veins running dry; it’s quite stimulating. Perhaps it is the impression I leave upon the dirt as I pass over it. Time is an endless drain of sand, and it seems to be running out. There are three graves left unburied, in one lies the caricature of perfection and tragedy, in another, a fool endowed with halo and horns. Both are painted dark. They represent everything I have found wrong. Don’t laugh. The blind man is choking on Pareidolia; don’t break the fourth wall. God is suffocating on the dramatic irony.
He is pleasure and sin. She is blindness and false satisfaction. They shout from shoulder to shoulder, deafening rational thought and substituting it with tainted conscience. It is almost heavy. It almost ceases my stride. But I sit. For time shall always come to pass, I will always come back to sit. To observe and correct the faults in their own steps. They are good intentions; yet, now I’ve aspirations to wish and a well to throw my pennies in.
I could turn water into wine, but I shall consider poison. One will kill him, but the other will get him drunk enough to stumble off the edge of this manmade abyss.
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