Down-Going

I am in the process of serializing my novel, On Fire, the story of a heraclitean lost weekend. The previous chapter may be read here. It’s a prologue, of sorts. The next will be posted in a week. This appeared previously at Charm School. Thank you

An alarm rings out to hail my awakening— [I chose the “Sci Fi” sound after subjecting myself to the default tone for most of my life— reminds me of Space—no shit] rising sweaty from a bed too small— tropically I seek proliferation, expansion, intensification— little flies approaching a pastry left on the countertop— ants crawling up to my bottle of glycine in the heavy humid June [I have no inherent trouble sleeping— I knock on wood— on earth— on concrete floor— only seeking to maximize]— let me see all its diversity and judge accordingly.

What emerges from the tropical bestiary of human beings? Something exotic. I’ve always wanted to die doing something— not the suicidal contrivance of a scenario to kill me, but rather do something to the fullest such that I expend myself completely. When I surf the big wave I want it to throw me aloft and dash me against the cliffs, so consumed I expire— I dub this jagged fatal love Maenad’s Rock! Of thee I sing, land where my fathers died.

Their holy foolish son risen, climbing how deep from my mother do I love my father the open sky. All knowing spiritual love is what I would call it— boring is what makes you rich but I’m a prodigal spender— expender— deeper into the mountainside that splits the world in twain, and part the hair of tides at earthsea— it goes in and out in and out in and out in and I choose drowning in an inch of water like a child or fucking moron enraptured by the glittering image, over undifferentiated life mature in its composure, replete with shrinking dying water down blood body and soul— what’s best is what I lust for— rare fatal immortal fame— I was made to be a bard or a tyrant, in either case ruling by violence and intrigue, and never a successful shepherd.

I’m prodigal with my time and my life. Nothing goes to waste when I spend everything. How do you feel in a casino? Let me guess: “Oh, isn’t it sad to see people, your dear and fellow human beings, sitting hunched and backlit, shrunken as evil dwarves, rubbing away fingerprints on the screen of a slot machine?” When I see that I think of a trapped and lovely dog digging through a carpet to the hardwood floor underneath. It wants to be free! & it wants so purely that its claws break— the gambler is acting on a noble impulse, they’re free to commit any crime of passion, if only they could feel its peculiar burn— the desire to free oneself from work at any cost. I don’t mean the expenditure of effort— I don’t mean the exercise of strength— I don’t mean POWER, I mean WORK, the necessary and sufficient condition of which is DRUDGERY.

Overcoming struggle isn’t work, it’s play: AGON— You wouldn’t get it— how to die and continue onward—Mantras of the left hand path— Buddhism for the white man— accruing bad karma [by any means, I live as destructively as possible— and I include by accident— intention is unnecessary— only a smokescreen to us— what matters is the things we do, not what we imagine to be their origin]— the secret to eternal life so sought after in the West. I am conquering and colonizing every link on the great chain of being. I am rust and my hand is outside me, gritted and stroking my universal removal— climbing to the summit just to fall back down and start again. I am exercising my arms and legs through vigorous practice of attachment and cannot-let-go, becoming a snake— a cat— a horse— a lion— the chariot driver again trampling all. I am spending a thousand years in hell [on earth— in heat— in love] for every drop of blood. I am trapped in samsara and I will enjoy and affirm it forever. I am never tired of the turning wheel that sweeps me up and crushes me down. I am a sadist destined for the greatest gift— knowing all through the infliction of pain. I am a masochist destined for the greatest gift— my exquisite individual torture for eternity. I am a wanderer who will be here now and be there later and be everywhere at some point. I am in love with life on earth and will never let Nature go from my embrace.

Beside a dead pine tree my brain is frying. I ate six eggs today in the morning and the Sun rose for me— for me! Not you— did you eat the yolk? It earns no interest just sitting there, it earns dust, a percent of a percent, so empty out the oil and brine and put it to use. I know of only one way to get fresh air into a church— by burning it down. I live off fat and caffeine, anything else I can get my hands and mouth on really. I’m metabolically blessed— not for my appearance mind you, I have to starve for that, but knocking on wood as I write this, I’ve never had digestive issues. Just built different, right? I drink dairy and eat red meat and candy and that dread Hemorrhoid has never assailed me. My knuckles are bloody from the knocking.

Commute my sentence, a shitty journey— I know I did something bad in a past life— I’m guilty and unashamed, or if I am it is from lack of ambition— I should have done something worse— I descend into a hole to get where I need to go, exiting another hole on the other side of the city. Somewhere in the bowels, on the Red Line between Cambridge and South Boston, I find a familiar polyp once such as myself.

Johnny Wad lived to rock & roll. You should have seen this guy, the most ghoulishly sexy ladies and germs hanging off his every screamed and grunted word— until he fell in love that is, in love with a men’s regular haircut so-called “bread & butter gay,” sold his stratocaster and bought a lawn mower.

He’d gone straight, so to speak, and replaced the nail polish with dirt— shit, maybe. That domestic pastoral fantasy makes my skin crawl, but different stroke, folk, whatever— what’s best is to be yourself, not who you are but what you are, at any cost, including my disgust. Only thing is, this guy is a soft-paw dog, one bred for show such as myself, and anyway there is no ex-. You are what you are and for most people it isn’t much.

So a minnesinger sees a sexy guy and burns his lute to cook him dinner (no thought to the fact he’ll return to the wandering road before too long or suffer. for it, or, We Can Only Become What We Are)— it tastes like shit because he’s used to eating shit, he only eats when he’s drunk and the coke wears off and it makes everything taste so good— but love changes us, now he’s doughy and his throat was always sore from drunken song and still it’s sore but chastely so, praising the value of hard honest work. I’m saving up to buy a house but I can’t stop snacking— and think of how I used to be, just leeching through life on the labor of others— now I have dignity.

He ran into a blonde beast and lost everything. Ended up working for the guy, basically enslaved himself— we ran into each other on the subway one wan Friday morning— O John! How come your pastoral fantasy runs through Central Square Cambridge? The sixth hour of the morning is the hour of the demon so I set alarm for 5:40 often snoozing and springing from a bed to meet a world empty at that time, streets bearing only red-light runners and a giant forehead under pink hair. I’m standing on it as housefly, rubbing my hands free of oikoumene and just fly— I’m not going to work today, I’m going straight to copulate and perish as is my due but there is nobody around to fuck or kill me— it must be time to jack off, self-immolate and see from behind the veil whether I will live on forever or be forgotten— the die cast, I’m gambling with an evil dwarf that lives on the back of my neck who I call “dear friend.”

He’s gone straight, stopped singing and can’t stop his cant of yapping to fill a hole a drug dug there, something about how everything in the world is entailed in any single thing— you’re telling one story over and over again— there’s a damp towel hanging on my bedroom door and smoke in the air— even the slaves are necessary— even the child soldiers make you smile [sitting across from a smug old yuppie in workout gear— guy needs 10 gadgets just to go for a run— you’re killing your gains— you’re bathing in blue light— you’re self-satisfied and ugly, in the face and body. Perhaps it’s good you’re trying to improve, I just wish you understood how grave the circumstances you’re a victim of— old man never understand— old man set in his ways but he learns to play with new gadgets, just incorporeate them into his old ways— old man never understand— it’s over for him— his hormones have peaked— they’ve crashed— “Hormone is Big Magic”— when it goes, it goes and your “spirit” will never return, and it was never a spirit, you just couldn’t confront the Body on its own terms, our only terms being fictions for what we go through— tell me blood is insufficient, but I digress and you live in a shell— and I see your guts, soft and bloated through a plastic shirt— it’s making me crabby]— we can only tell one story— this is a devotional work to Nature— a paean— I cannot help but pay attention— I have a personal relationship with gods— we fuck each other— we try to kill each other— every attempt fails and succeeds in its failing— everything necessary— everything needful— I’d like to see you tell a lie but you can only tell the same story over and over again and it’s true— He’s not wrong, I’m just exhausted and searching for a momentary peace.

When am I ever alone? The world clings to me in attachment. Everywhere I look, happy couples like an algae bloom— homeostatic misery is disrupted, the environment is going to regulate us out of existence. So much combustible material has amassed and it walks down the street hand in hand— all weight carried by the lesser half— what polarity! So the thing sinks, is heavier than air, displaces fluid on its descent and reaches the earth a tear drop of strong glass, as long as the tail doesn’t twitch, in which case the whole thing obliterates. A thousand atmospheres of pressure, compress you now into a foil and the heat of transformation will distill you to a tincture, then drink. This book is on fire and it says the same thing over and over again— this book is on fire.

When I step off the train I’ve entered Hell— there’s a man with a water bottle and trash bag sticking out of his pants, and everybody’s chin wags following their neck. Man is a shameful animal. Beware to the wolves! You will return to the place you found easy food and end up as a wheezing blob— and we have been feeding ourselves for thousands of years. Walking through Boston is like walking through a graveyard— how do you think I feel? I love life.